Landing Softly
by Dr. Cat
Summary: Defecting had been easy; but the process of redemption is a little more demanding.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to Transformers: Prime. All characters are copyright of Hasbro and their respective creators.

 **Landing Softly**

Deception.

The very act of deceiving. To trick, to cheat, to fraud, to ensnare. I saw it then.

Deceit.

The practice of misleading. To be untruthful, untrustworthy, unreliable, unsafe. I see it now.

Deceptive.

The power to make fabrications believable. The gravity of disgrace and the revelry of disrespect; the volume of dishonesty and lowness of dishonor. I will always see it.

Decepticon.

The faction set on domination at any and all cost. The ones to oppress, the ones who were brutal, the cruelest, vicious, merciless ones. I see it because I lived it; well sort of.

I didn't live by its rule as much as its principle, —I didn't even have a badge for crying out loud! Just my word, for all that was worth— but I had begun to practice this creed for far too long . . . time after time, age into age . . . I began to swear by it; thrive on it; believe in it. I believed it because I became complacent. I failed to recognize what was missing. I failed to see that instead of deception I was seeing cunning; instead of ruthlessness I was seeing relentlessness; instead of devious I was seeing clever. I always saw strong, ingenious, sharp, resourceful and strategic. We were the ones who would save our world; bring it back no matter what. We would triumph; we would be victorious; we would win. I never saw the corruption or the wrong or the evil because how could I? I swallowed the lie. And it endured in me as much as I endured in it.

Until now.

I live differently; so dramatically unlike me and yet closer to myself than ever. Listen to me, sounding all philosophical and whatnot, but, beside the point. I changed. It didn't happen instantly or painlessly, but there was a difference. What was it that took only one moment, one short period of time, in contrast to alter everything?

Peace?

The very state of harmony. Reconciliation, tranquility, contentment, amity. Yes, that did have an effect on me. We all wanted it; even if we were sorely inexperienced with it; even if it didn't look the way we imagined. Certainly, I had seen more restriction, penalty and bias in my former mindset. A world of the fittest, the strongest and the mightiest. What hadn't I expected to see?

Freedom.

The quality of being free. The loudness of liberty and the quietness of sovereignty; the jubilance of choice and the somberness of autonomy for all. He wanted it long before anyone else did.

Justice.

The quality of being just. To have objectivity, integrity, honor, virtue; merits that had diminished for all over the span of war. He wanted it for everyone.

Hope.

The desire with expectation of fulfillment. A wish; a belief; a reliance; a trust I didn't even know I was capable of. He wanted it for me.

These things, these traits, I saw what it took to establish them. The horrifying onslaught of Unicron's undead army of predacons, the imposing presence of Megatron's possessed body and the insufferable actions of Starscream. Then there was Predaking's last stand, the Autobots' persistence and gall and the disbandment of the Decepticons by the lord of darkness himself. Even my hasty decision to turn had an impact on the outcome, but nothing compared to what he did and had been doing since the beginning.

At the time, I didn't know what to make of Optimus Prime's death. His self-sacrifice flew in the face of everything I had seen and known about leadership. To me, leaders sent others to do the dirty work; to do the dying. And even if they did perish on the battlefield it was almost always the result of selfish ambitions of conquest, fiery rages of impulse or embittered forms of revenge. Big O died not because he wanted his name to be remembered in all of Cybertronian history—though trust me, it most certainly will be—nor did he do it out of spite. He looked us all in the optics and gave us his sincere motive; to ensure new life on Cybertron.

I couldn't comprehend it then, but the unknown feeling I had still burns within my spark. At present, I know what it is, though I would be hard-pressed to admit it. It was a humbling, awe-inspiring sensation rising far above the war and the pain and the mistakes. It was dread and veneration, submission and wonder, shame and devotion all at once.

Now, I could say that I was just caught up in the moment. After all, I had just witnessed a mass of zombiecons trying to rip the very heart of Cybertron out at the direction of my former leader's body playing host to a chaos god of ole. Doesn't exactly scream 'emotionally stable time to make a life-altering decision', but here I am based on the choice I made then.

Some will see it as shallow or cowardly, calling me a sucker for flattery or a turncoat to save my own mesh and I won't refute them; partly because both points aren't wholly accurate or fully untrue, mostly because I don't care. All I know is when that Big Rig said we had each acted as a Prime, I was shocked. He didn't say what I expected him to. You know, something along the lines of 'good job guys, you acted like a real team out there'. No, he said we acted like equals, to himself! And on top of that, he had included me. Me!

I couldn't accept that out right. I didn't even understand it let alone deserve it. It was a moment of intense self-consciousness for me. I had to do something, I had to qualify his statement somehow, soften its impact on me. It meant saying something. Seriously, I dropped a one-liner in the middle of Optimus Prime's Farwell speech. It was effective in relieving my sheepishness but, for Primus' sake, why couldn't I have at least said something a little more . . . worth stating.

Well, anyway, I was both mortified and astonished by his words and couldn't help but be excruciatingly distracted as all he asked in return was for the Autobots to keep fighting the noblest of fights; to keep Cybertron's second chance secure. He was going to leave us. It twisted my spark.

At a point when the future was so uncertain and the leadership of a Prime was most needed, there would be nothing but us. And that's exactly how it was.

I'll be honest, I didn't think we stood a chance. My first decacycle was spent coming up with appropriate escape plans in case this whole deal went south for any number of reasons. I mean, an eons long war couldn't dissolve that quickly and there had still been Predaking's vague statements between tolerance and a threat along with Starscream and Shockwave's unaccounted whereabouts and my own status as an ex-Decepticon. Actually, that last one is still a source of anxiety for me, but it was even more so then. In fact, one point still boggles me; once that Big Rig accepted me, the original seven never brought my allegiance up for discussion again, ever. I can't recall one time anyone saying anything.

Sure, I could tell they didn't trust me, but there were never any accusations or interrogations or contentions. I was waiting for it, truly expecting it, because, seriously, who could resist rubbing it in, right? Dredging up past injustices and battles and conduct. But it never came. Their silence on the issue seemed to burrow deeper into my psyche than any other thing they could have done. They were taking me at my word. Me?! My word?! Like what I gave to the Decepticons when being 'target practice' no longer suited me and . . . Breakdown.

Anyway, I still don't understand it.

Granted, I didn't say anything either; I certainly never apologized . . . though I may have thought about it once or twice. What would I be apologizing for?

War?

A state of open and declared armed hostile conflict between . . . us. A Cybertronian civil war. As if there's anything civil about warfare. Look where eternities of fighting got us! Another subject for another day.

Mm. Day.

The time of light between one night and the next. It seems old Earth lingo dies hard. Now that I think about it, a lot of Earth customs seemed to have rubbed off on us without notice. Even the new arrivals appear to share a keen interest in the little blue planet's link to us. But, I digress.

Sometimes the atmosphere, the tension, back then was too much. And other times, the process was so effortless, it was second nature. The results were confusing for me, but I stayed; another result of the Big O's speech it seems.

Nowadays, the contact is still disconcertingly different, but consoling too. It isn't what I predicted. Take joking around with Smokey for example or sharing expertise and exasperation with Ratchet. Then there's enduring Wheeljack's leery gaze after enjoying Arcee's refreshing wit. From barely tolerating Ultra Magnus' management style —again I say barely— to painstakingly avoiding Bulkhead's enthusiasm. These interactions were strange and fulfilling and awkward and intriguing and frustrating all at the same time. Then there were the newcomers, Decepticon and Autobot alike. These on their own were confusing puzzles enough for me, but throw in the dealings with Bumblebee and it was a downright enigma. He's changed too . . . well, theoretically, we've all changed, but his is more noticeable. He's not the same scout and warrior I encountered on the battlefield.

Assertive.

Having or showing a confident and dynamic personality. Check.

Perceptive.

Having or showing sensitive insight. Check.

Humble.

Having or showing a modest or low estimate of one's own importance. Double Check.

Textbook leader. Really; he is literally behaving like the select few you read about in history and aspire to, I guess. Not like Megatron,—history uses tyrant in place of the word leader there—but not unlike Optimus Prime. In fact, the resemblance is uncanny; kind of . . . eerie. What am I saying?! It's irritating! I'm used to slighting the bug not respecting him. He gives out orders and everyone listens even though no leadership was designated to him officially that I can see. He never seems to notice my growls of indignation when he assigns me a task either and he always responds to my objections with the same reasonable empathy one would give a sparkling and yet, I find myself heeding his every word! I can't stand it! I mean, who died and made him boss anyway . . . oh yeah, right. Sorry, moving along . . .

Heh. Move along. Parting company. Escape. Adios, Au Revoir, Arrivederci, Auf Wiedersehen, Goodbye. Still not a bad idea. That's what it had been up until recently; up until I made that first mistake. Ugh! I should have never answered the call to the Nemesis. Breakdown and I would still be cruising Earth's roads looking for fresh energon deposits completely unaware of and, more accurately, indifferent to the war's outcome. But no, I got the call 'Megatron needs assistance' and really I heard 'opportunity' like any good opportunist does. I figured if I helped the head honcho out, easy street would open up and I would travel down its famous boulevard. So, I rolled the dice, as they say. What I should have done was hedge my bets more carefully, as they also say.

I hadn't counted on my assistance to mean intense medical care for a leader barely holding on to his spark. After all, I was a scientist way before I was a medic and the term medic would need to be applied in its freest setting anyway. Not saying I'm terrible or anything; in fact, I'm quite good, but I never had any formal medical training. Just what I picked up here and there for the sake of both necessity and curiosity. But of course, Starscream knew that. Bring in an expert indeed. Ah, thus my second dilemma; the second-in-command's not so hidden agenda. At least, I knew how to play that game close to the old chestplate. No one had a clue I was involved in that little conspiracy plot, that is, until Screamer had to replay the whole incident in his half-baked brain pan. Argh! I hated being on that ship.

Forced to be on call around the clock to perform menial repair jobs on Vehicons and any other schmuck who got injured just because Megatron wanted to keep us on board. We were made to fetch this and that from here and there at the risk of life, limb or finish. I had really been hoping Megs would allow Breakdown and I to resume our former work, but with some added benefits. No such luck. He just had to come back online like he wasn't supposed to, didn't he?

Then, I had to constantly fight everyone else for brownie points to get on Gruesome's good side because that was the only way to ensure certain privileges like living. Does anyone know how hard it is for a slightly lenient medic to earn the respect of an absolutely ruthless warmonger?!

And the lies . . . the continuous, unashamed lies. First Starsream, then Megatron and even Dreadwing; everyone on that ship employed falsehoods; everyone. I would be asked to figure things out or retrieve items for some great plan only to be left in the dark by the end of it. Or, I would be forced to participate in some cockamamie scheme and then blamed for it when it was unsuccessful. They failed to communicate the circumstances surrounding Breakdown's fate and Breakdown himself hadn't clued me into the whole picture that day. Why did we stay?

Oh sure, there were some perks; plenty of energon, protection from Autobot ambushes, facilities for proper maintenance and a laboratory at my disposal. There was also a certain excitement in having direct involvement with the big players; seeing firsthand the progress of restoring Cybertron. The ole 'roof over the head, fuel in the tank' bit. But, was it worth it?

Let's see, hmm; left glorious freedom for abject servitude, let my brand of valor fall to cowardice and leased the only conviction I had left to a bunch of back-stabbing manipulators. No! It wasn't worth it. Pit, I wanted to leave when Starscream used the Harvester to suck the life blood right out of one of our own doing his job! Yup, should have commandeered an escape pod, deactivated the homing signal and never looked back. But Breakdown convinced me to stick around; stay with my original plan. After all, he trusted my intellect over my instincts and he also trusted Megatron as a leader; for all the good it did him . . . I hated that place! I hated that war! Winning team; I hated both sides! I hated what it all did to me; what it took from me.

I used to be confidant, spirited and adventurous. Well, I'm still adventurous which reminds me; I have to secure another outlet for my thrill-seeking needs since I was informed the space bridge is only for 'official' business now. Anyway, words to describe me presently would fit under cautious, melancholy and reserved.

"I don't even have a word for it," I say in a murmur just to hear my hollow voice echo off emptiness. Why am I feeling so low? Maybe it's the extra shifts as 'assistant' medic I've had to pull thanks to a slew of new arrivals or the constant jeers I have to endure from those, mainly Decepticons, who won't cooperate. Pugh, the Autobots' pet con; at least I'm not in prison, idiots. Well, it could be I've actually grown back my conscience; Primus knows I'm in the right environment for it.

Uh, I suppose I said all that to say this:

I feel guilty.

Justifiably chargeable and responsible for my past conduct and actions that led up to this point. Why? Because I didn't just hear about Optimus Prime's sacrifice, I saw it. Because even with less resources, less numbers and less armed might, the Autobots persevered and restored our world. And instead of reinforcing grudges or setting up a new world order in their favor they held to their word of peace wanting to make everyone Cybertronians instead of factions once again. I couldn't say that about myself. I once stood directly in their path, fighting against them. I stuck to selfish ideals and have very little to show for it.

I feel shame.

A painful sensation caused by the consciousness of my shortcomings and disgraces. Why? Because I still find myself angry and bitter, sad and mournful, scared and alarmed. I offer biting sarcasm, unhappy cynicism and tentative commitment to those around me. But, I receive forgiveness, compassion and esteem from a surprising number of others and it bothers me. I can't give anything back. I'm not kindly or virtuous or even sociable at times. I'm just me and, every so often, I hate that.

I feel torn.

Pulled by past actions into one direction and future prospects into another. Why? Because half of me wants to scream in defiance at the whole universe while the other wants acceptance so badly it frightens me. Part of me itches to run and never look back. Another part hungers to stay and never leave again. My need for independence versus my longing for reassurance; my natural tendency towards disregard versus my new impulse towards dedication. I want to fight and surrender all in the same moment. I feel as if I'm slowly coming undone due to the war still raging inside.

I feel worthless. I feel anxious. I feel lost . . .

"Knock Out?"

I couldn't help but jump at the sudden disturbance of quiet and solitude. And did I just shriek? No, it was more of a yelp. Either way, I look up sharply to whomever caused my brief scare and embarrassment. Unfortunately, I can't make out anyone because it's darker than I thought. I must have been gone for quite a while; lost track of time. Well, watching sunsets and reflecting on regrets can have that effect. Anyway, it doesn't matter if I can't see them, I recognize the voice.

"We need to tie a bell around your neck or something. You nearly gave me spark failure, Arcee," I say, dragging the last part of her name out in exasperation. She decides to step out into what remaining sunlight there is and I'm . . . irritated to find she is in the opposite direction I'm facing. She probably moved over in spite. I turn and she stares at me, helm tilted to one side. Even in my seated position, she isn't much taller than me, indicating her stance is more out of perplexity than observation.

"What are you doing here?" she says in a voice that I want to take as accusatory, but can't. Obviously, I'm not going to answer that question, but shouldn't I say something?

I don't respond and simply stare at her, not sure what to do actually. Instead of frowning or narrowing her optics or whatever one did when concerned or angry, she smirks. "I thought I was the only one who knew about the brooding spot."

I blink and then, blink again. Finally, I smirk. She really is wit personified. It's reassuring.

"Who says I'm brooding?" I say smoothly.

"Well, I'm sure you didn't come out here to take in the view," she quips, gesturing to the barren landscape. Though we have done a lot of rebuilding—the dozen or so labor related injuries I treat a day evidence that—it doesn't take a long drive out here to see we still have a whole lot more work ahead of us.

"Point taken," I say simply. There is a moment of silence between us. Need to break it. "So was it your turn to track down the escapee this time or did they double book reservations for the brooding spot again?"

She quirks an optic ridge at that and I slowly turn to face back out at the fading light. Why did I say that? I practically admitted I was sulking out here. Bah, I can't even keep a poker face anymore. I allow all my previous contemplations to quickly back themselves up as less serious thoughts take the forefront; a defense mechanism I can't shake and don't know if I want to. I am about to stand and offer to return to base when she sits next to me on the abandoned . . . well, I don't know what it is, but it was the cleanest thing I could find in this sector to use as a seat. Our vantage point is rather high. I decided to swing lofty heights instead of ground level this go around. The nest of ruins surrounding us and the resonating drop off before us gave the right ambiance for my disposition anyway.

"Technically, the first one, but I wouldn't call it tracking down an escapee," she says in all seriousness, "It's getting dark and you weren't answering any of the comm. channels. As hard as it is for you to believe this, we were worried about you this time."

"Worried I'll run off for good this time, am I right? Well, relax, Cee," I say flippantly, knowing the sentiment gets under her plating, "You guys are the only ones around with a means of processing raw energon so I believe I'll stay. After all, I do need a means of charging my rotary buffer."

The trick works every time. Not too offensive, but just enough to get them off my case. She remains facing forward, but I can just see the anger boiling in her blue optics. No more 'worry' now, huh? She'll storm off and I can come back in my own . . . sweet . . . time, why is she laughing?

"What's so funny?" I ask, my voice betraying my surprise and, unfortunately, my insecurity. This wasn't the intended result and she is still sniggering, bringing a servo up to her forehead (eh, human term again).

"He's right; you really are a piece of work," she says pliably, standing to her pedes. My former uncertainty is forgotten upon the arrival of my pride.

"Who's right?! And what's that supposed to mean?!" I say defensively, standing as well to tower over her. She doesn't even blink; how infuriating.

"Seriously? You have to ask that?" she says dismissively, folding her arms. I continue to glare down at her.

"Humor me?" I say darkly. Honestly, I don't know why I'm so angry. Of course, they talk about me behind my back; Primus knows I talk about them behind theirs. She glances over at the dying sun rays and then back to me with a small smile.

"Follow me back and I will."

I watch as she turns and begins walking down the narrow path leading down from here. That part of me that wanted to scream in frustration earlier . . . yeah, it's still there. Instead, I kick a piece of rubble over the edge, listening to its troubled decent as it pings off siding, breaking off more debris to freefall before crashing into the ground, hard. I grumble as her presence gets farther and farther away because it aches. I hate it. It's easier to be the one walking away than the one left behind. That's why I like leaving to begin with; why I detest being found. Regardless, the silence and darkness that was so consoling moments ago are only for a moment more as the atmosphere becomes crushing; suffocating. The further she gets the stronger my isolation pushes me to follow.

I do so, begrudgingly, and I'm not running to catch up either. I'll just trail behind for a few more . . . oh no. Please don't stop, please don't stop; don't turn!

I quickly look up at the sky just as she stops and turns to look at me. I want to embody the attitude of indifference, as if I were strolling nonchalantly through a park instead of seeking freedom from answerless questions I couldn't even bring myself to ask. When I reach where she stopped, she turns to match pace with me and we walk in silence for a cycle or two. It would be quicker in our vehicular modes, but if she's not changing neither am I. Besides, I'm in no hurry to get back anyhow.

"You're quiet," she finally says. I give a small shrug.

"I'm waiting on that explanation," I say dryly. I almost forgot about that; almost. She makes a noncommittal noise before looking up at me.

"Sorry, I didn't mean for it to come out as an insult."

"I didn't know there was any other way to take it," I sneered, but with no true malice behind it. Honestly, I didn't really care how she meant it just as long as it wasn't true. I didn't need any more self-doubts than I already had.

"I know, hence the apology," she reiterated.

"Right, forgiven. Now, who said it? Let me guess: Ratchet? Magnus? Wheeljack? He should talk. He takes off more than I do. He's there what, twenty, maybe thirty, percent of the time?!"

"Knock Out, not my point. And it's more like forty-five. Anyway," she says before I can cut in with a comment, "What I should have said was you're difficult to read sometimes."

"Like that's any better. No offense, but you're not the easiest bot to peg down either," I say. She sighs; out of irritation or disappointment, I don't know. I hope it's the former.

"Let's just drop it then," she says, lowering her sights to face onward. It had been the latter. It's my turn to sigh. I don't do this often, because I hate to, but right now, I can't stand causing more grief.

"I'm . . . sorry," I say discreetly. She looks back up at me with searching optics and for a fleeting moment, I want her to understand why I am the way I am. The words begin leaving my vocalizer on that impulse. "I know I don't fit in. I don't always play nice or look like I care, but I do care and I try not to . . ."

I stop. What am I doing?! I can't endanger defenses I've worked so hard to build up just because of some runaway emotion. Trust is too precious and fragile at present.

"Forget it," I say curtly, picking up my pace to avoid her gaze. The temporary release of anger is satisfying for the whole of a nanoclick, because that's how quick Arcee is in front of me, blocking my path.

"Is that what you think we consider you? Just some . . . irritant in our midst?" she says with equal bluntness. I narrow my own optics. So much for apologizing.

"Let's just drop it," I say harshly, employing her previous words. She does narrow her optics this time.

"No, I think we should talk about this."

I try to step around her, but she doesn't allow me to pass. I don't want to talk anymore. Quickly, I transform into my alt mode, landing a few yards back from her pedes. I allow my wheels to spin, creating an angry cloud of acrid smoke before peeling out around her in a wide-arching circle. I expect her to follow suit and she does.

We race across the more desolate parts of Cybertron, engines screaming, debris flying, sparks pounding and neither of us making progress. I could have furthered the gap between us; really poured on the horsepower and she could have closed the gap; taken advantage of her speed to size acceleration. But we don't. No stunts pulled, no tricks played, just driving away. It's remarkably soothing.

I can feel my resentments ebbing away as my tires eat up more distance, leaving me with a not so unpleasant numbness; a blissful emptying of emotion. Nothing, but the journey.

I don't know when she pulls even with me, but I realize her presence as we switch our headlights on; evening twilight giving way to dusk. I appreciate her holding the silence as we travel in the direction of New Kaon. It seems to nurture a mutual respect out of me for her; that is until she inches just a little bit ahead. I don't quite figure Arcee being the racing type —too serious— but, as petty as it may sound, I correct the incongruity by pulling slightly ahead myself. True in my assumption of just a discrepancy in speed, we continue on a beat before . . . she pushes forward again.

It is so on!

My engine roars as I slam down the accelerator and pull away. She's quick to respond, however, gaining on me quickly and passing me with ease—that power to mass thing earlier—but I know she is approaching her limits and I'm just getting warmed up. Within moments, I'm back in the lead, excitement hammering through my lines as hard and fast as the ground beneath my treads. I haven't had this much fun in forever! No boundaries, no restrictions; who says we have to go back to base just yet.

I veer left, intending to visit some very old stomping grounds. Arcee follows, both of us sending up a spray of metallic dust in our wake.

"Where are you going?" she asks over our shared channel. She sounds worried. I smile inwardly.

"Just a short detour through the old Neutral Territories."

"Detour? It's several sectors out of the way," she says disparagingly, but makes no move to stop me. We keep up our exhilarating pace, weaving in and out of obstacles in our way; remnants of the past. We blaze across straightaways, dip over peaks and punch around curves all while trying to avoid colliding with each other; maintaining a certain flare is also an objective of mine. At some point, I use my mirrors to pinpoint my opponent's exact position in second place. I interiorly grin again.

"Admit it, this is fun," I say roguishly. I can almost hear her helm shake.

"Sometimes I wonder why . . . Knock Out! Stop!" she yells with such urgency I slam on my brakes, facing my attentions forward. Where my sensors should have indicated ground there is nothing.

"Scrap," I hiss as my frame quickly approaches, no, scratch that, goes over the brink of a drop-off. My tires spin in midair for only a fraction of time before I transform and reach back. I can't see the bottom of this void but I don't focus down, only over as my digits narrowly dig into the ledge. My momentum is still too dangerously fast and I can't find my voice as the sound of me sliding off steals it away. I swiftly find it again when the sensation of falling registers. I yell as everything seems to disappear, then hush when it emerges back; my decent abruptly halt by a vice like grip on my lower arm; Arcee.

She is holding on with everything she's got; lying level with the ground, her optics screwed shut, jaw set, neck strained, arms rigid and frame trembling from exertion. In shock, I stare for a while, lost in a world of fear and hope.

"Hurry and climb up. I can't hold you much longer!" she grunts through clenched teeth. It's all the encouragement I need to quickly wake from my stupor and swing my free arm up to grip the ledge. Together, with a few petrifying moments of imbalance, we manage to pull my chassis back up on solid ground. We let out large vents of heat as relief washes over us.

For me, the reality of the situation begins to set in by way of a heaviness creeping into my limbs. I can't even move from my position which is currently flat on my back. Possible fates begin to bombard me. She could have missed; I could have slipped; we could've both gone over. It sends a chill to my core. Arcee, however, seems to recover from the incident more readily.

"If that was supposed to be fun, I'd hate to see what your definition of dangerous is," she says with considerable strain in her voice. I allow her words to sink in and . . . chuckle. I must be drained to consider that quip funny, but I can't help but laugh, literally; I can't stop the sound from coming out. In fact, the laugh is full out now; growing anxious and louder. I can see Arcee looking down at me from her kneeling position, concern on her features. It doesn't curve the nervous laughter; makes it worse. I sit up, trying to wave off her sentiment and this uneasy fit taking over my whole body, but I'm powerless to stop it.

There's nothing funny about this, I tell myself but it doesn't quit. We almost died; she's going to think you're crazy; maybe you already are! Nothing works, because the feeling's starting to reach deeper now and it hurts; it throbs. If I stop laughing now it will turn into something else and I can't allow that; I won't. As if to mock my resolve on this point, my mind begins to haul up everything I recoil from; everything I dread to consider.

My uselessness. Restlessness. Defenselessness.

My striving. Failing. Fading.

I'm outraged. Downcast. Inconsolable.

How unsettling. Unsympathetic. Unbearable.

The thoughts keep coming and my laugh is struggling; teetering between a howl and whimper; hurting my tank, my helm, my spark. I want it to stop. Stop! I can't believe I'm doing this! I . . . I can't even stand up. Why does it hurt so much?

I slam my fists into the ground as silence finally comes to my vocalizer, but the action is accompanied by a few drops of moisture. I pin my optic lids shut, but the vicinity of sorrow is too close to swallow down this time.

Why is this happening now? It didn't when the war ended? Not when my only friend through the whole accursed thing passed?

A small, mournful noise escapes me.

Not when we lost our planet? Our home?

Another whine.

It didn't when the war started? Not at the sight of destruction and demise?

I pull my servos up to the sides of my helm as if trying to physically contain what mentally I could not. The guilt, the shame, the ambivalence.

I didn't even know the bottle of vile emotions existed, but it's not until now I realize that bottle isn't big enough and never was.

I break, lubricant spilling from my optics, trailing my face and landing softly on the ground.

I startle, optics shooting open at Arcee's sudden presence in front of me, because honestly, I forgot she was there. Angry thoughts of appearing weak and wounding pride try to fire to the surface, but they are extinguished in the turmoil of my pain and anguish. She kneels down and I don't know what to expect, because this has never happened to me before. She's not a Decepticon. She's an Autobot. And she looks just as confused as I am troubled, but she manages to administer something real; something tangible; something I have missed. Enveloping arms.

I hesitate, rigid from well-practiced attitudes, but, like recalling a dear memory long thought lost, I lean into the embrace, trusting it to do what nothing else can and I cry.

I cry for everything.

And then, I cry for me.

" _For godly sorrow produces repentance leading to salvation, not to be regretted . . ." 2 Corinthians 7: 10_


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: I didn't intend on writing more than a one shot when I penned this story, but I found myself wanting to know how the other side of being comforted plays out; the view point of the comforter. I debated on whether to make it a stand alone too, but I think it follows up better with the first. So, I hope this is as enjoyable to read as it was to write.

 **Landing Softly**

Honestly, I hadn't expected this.

Usually, I'm a better judge about these sort of things.

But then, this isn't things as usual.

When Knock Out hadn't returned from his rounds earlier, everyone grew justifiably worried.

Bee asked me to go check on the guy because of my _better rapport_ with the ex-Con. I didn't know whether to be flattered or offended. It's nice to know I'm not holding the same resentment I once did, but still; I'm more understanding . . . of Knock Out!

I'll admit, he's entertaining; well-versed in the art of sarcastic one-liners and he has an ability to _stir the pot_ that's unrivaled, if not saluted in some cases. Mm, I suppose I have to admit he's brighter than I ever gave him credit for too. I mean, I know he's a doctor and everything but, with the biases of war, those on the other side always seemed incompetent; dangerous, but in that mindless sort of way scraplets were. Anyway, witticisms and profession aside, he has some . . . unusual quirks that make it difficult to interact with him let alone understand him.

First and foremost is his vanity; that intense, almost obsessive, attention to his appearance and the maintenance there of.

Someone might think I was exaggerating if I said I'd never seen so many kinds of waxes, polishes and cleaners in one place before, but Knock Out's hoard is just that; extensive. Heck, half of it's prohibited, but that's another story for another time. What's really amazing is he's not against sharing when asked, but Primus help you if you dare touch anything without explicit permission. Smokescreen learned just how protective Doc Knock could be of finish care products and it wasn't a pleasant experience for anyone which leads me to another attribute of his . . .

Round-about antagonism.

He'll never blatantly go against an order, but if he doesn't agree with it or just plain doesn't want to do it, we will know about it one way or another. The increase in sarcasm, the withheld pleasantries, the critical suggestions, the procrastinated tasks; whatever form it took, he made sure to get his point across in the most compliant yet exasperating way possible. Couple that with his habit of saying whatever's on his mind and . . . ugh. I guess we should take his willingness to object as an encouraging sign of building trust or, at least, that's what Bee says. I suppose I can see a case for it anyway.

Towards the beginning, when we all were just trying to fathom rebuilding without Optimus, Knock Out had kept his mouth shut. Granted, we were all pretty subdued, but, outside of necessary communications like _hello, I need some energon_ , Knock Out said and did nothing. I suspect it was more out of fear than respect on his part. After all, his standing with us was a bit shaky at the time. Mm, I still remember the stiff way he carried himself as if waiting for a fight or the way he flinched whenever he heard his name spoken as if anticipating punishment; the frequent look of uncertainty and nervousness in his optics as if expecting judgment. It all painted a portrait of his distrust, though, I must confess, I wouldn't have seen these behaviors if I hadn't been looking to satisfy my own suspicions.

Either way, his fear didn't seem to last long; I watched him change. He became more vocal; more comfortable. His suppressed personality, actions and characteristics began to rise back up. His showy, confident strides into a room, instigating contests and challenges; his perking up at the mention of his various nicknames, awaiting relaxed conversation; his solid smirk and low set optic ridges, giving off the impression of being sly and in control. The picture was coming in clear; he was starting to feel secure enough around us to be himself and I didn't know if I liked what I was seeing at the time or not.

I had preferred quiet, safe Knock Out and wasn't thrilled with the idea of his old nature making a comeback. For one, it made it harder to forgo the past; not antagonize him for his previous position in life. But, I can't say I was afraid of him leading a Decepticon uprising as some of the others were. However, I certainly had more misgivings than Smokescreen and Bumblebee did. They seemed to accept the ex-Con right out of the gate. I'm not saying Bee and the rookie didn't have their reservations, but they appeared more welcoming and Knock Out seemed to loosen up with them quicker.

Actually, it's interesting to watch those three interact. Annoying sometimes, but interesting nonetheless.

Smokescreen and Knock Out always seemed to feed off each other's nonsense; a result of inexperience meeting bad influence I suppose. Unpolished joke sharing, petty argument having, immature prank playing and fast alt racing were never in short supply where these two were involved. Ultra Magnus does limit their shenanigans when he's aware of them and that seems to be all the time. Granted, Knock Out is an expert at covering said antics up, just not as adept as Smokescreen is at accidently revealing them. Neither could be counted on to hold a secret if bragging rights were involved. I will say I tolerate their little escapades more now than I did at first.

Now, as far as the affiliation with Bee went, I had a whole lot more trouble being permissive in the beginning. I'd never seen someone roll their optics as much as Knock Out did when with Bumblebee. I can still see those exchanges vividly:

'Knock Out, you're going to work with Ratchet for a while, okay? No excuses.'

Optic roll.

'Knock Out, if you're not too busy shining your rims, can we get a little help over here, please?'

Optic roll, lengthy sigh.

'Knock Out! Did you forget to log in the energy reports again?!'

Optic roll, lengthy sigh, hurried steps.

They had been two opposites running parallel of each other; one trying to bridge the gap between them while the other did everything to keep that rift in place. I have to say, it was never outright rebellion on Knock Out's part, just a not so subtle lack of respect. It was this aversion to Bumblebee's authority that had me so aggravated with the _good_ doctor. Bee was making every effort to include that vain, sarcastic coward and it was being snubbed on all fronts. My whole family deserved esteem in every regard and Bee was chief among them. He had proven himself and earned a spot of honor. I couldn't stand him being disrespected, indirectly or otherwise.

It made for a boiling animosity in me towards our newest player and he must have picked up on my hostility because in passing our optics would lock on to each other bearing a silent message _, I don't like you_. The tension probably would have mounted to a breaking point if it hadn't of been for one incident; one specific moment.

It had been an extremely hectic time for everyone. The first batch of maturing sparklings needed attention, more refuges were coming back and a recognizance mission in Crystal City had hit a major snag. On top of all that, a band of uncooperative Decepticons were trying to cause a riot in one of the smaller, construction camps outside Iacon. It wasn't like we had a well-organized government going—heck, we still don't have a full council. Anyway, as Team Prime, all the responsibility naturally fell to us. And wouldn't you know, it happened to be during the fifty-five percent of the time Wheeljack wasn't there; his intergalactic patrol duties as he called it. Luckily, Ratchet was only a space bridge away.

It would be the old divide and conquer strategy.

Of course, our two medics would stay behind at base, seeing to the newest protoforms and operating the ground bridge as needed. Bumblebee and Smokescreen were already several thousand clicks south exploring the ancient ruins of one of Cyberton's most spectacular cities for hotspots while Ultra Magnus and Ironhide were at the landing field welcoming long lost comrades and quieting the doubts of former enemies. That left Bulkhead and I in charge of restoring the peace; just when everything had been going so well too.

I remember Knock Out had bridged us there because he and I shared our customary glare. When we arrived, much to Bulk and I's surprise, Jazz was already there keeping our Cons at bay. It seemed the group of agitators stationed themselves on the other side of an energon depo; a way of ensuring no blaster fire I'm sure. With a bit of tactile negotiation, we had them in custody without too much collateral damage done. It was on our way back to Iacon that I received a communication over my personal line.

"Arcee, I'm bridging you back to base. Bumblebee's been hurt," Ratchet had said in a voice so grave I couldn't hide the panic on my faceplates. Bulkhead noticed my alarm immediately; he knew something was wrong. As the ground bridge opened up behind us, he directed with insistence:

"Go! Jazz and I got this covered."

I had quickly run through the portal not knowing what to expect. Why would my assistance be needed? Was I going to walk into a medical emergency unfolding right before my optics? Could they locate Bee? Am I going to have to try and find him? Was it too late? My processor couldn't imagine the scenarios quick enough . . . But what I hadn't expected to charge into was a heated argument between Ratchet and Knock Out.

"I'm faster than you, old timer! If you'd gone ahead and sent me I'd have been there by now!" Knock Out had yelled raising his arms up and circling them down in an overexcited gesture. Ratchet had glared back.

"I have more experience in field work than you, Knock Out. Besides, one of us has to stay and make sure the sparks take to the new protoforms and I can't very well leave you here alone."

"What good is experience if we're too late? I've seen much larger bots bleed out in the time it's taken us to deliberate this! We don't know how long Bumblebee's been leaking. Look, here's Arcee; go already!" Knock Out had practically shouted. It was obvious from his clenched fist and fiery optics he was reframing from an all-out hissy fit.

"What's going on?!" I had asked in an equally loud volume. Ratchet had fixed me with a look of concern and gravity while Knock Out's scrutiny held more irritation but the same urgency.

"Bumblebee was severely injured in an avalanche of rubble near the heart of Crystal City. Smokescreen has been able to pull him free, but he too is injured. I can't lock onto their exact coordinates thanks to some astrophysical interference, but I believe I can get pretty close and track their life signals from there," Ratchet had said while opening the ground bridge, "I want you to stay here and prepare the . . . wait! Stop!"

Before either Ratchet or I had time to react, Knock Out had grabbed the ready and waiting medical kit, transformed and peeled out of the ground bridge portal. Shock and anger played across my features.

"Ratchet! I can't believe this! We have to bring him back . . ."

"No!" he had interrupted my rant. I looked over at him; the pain in his optics revealing the true direness of the situation. It had made my spark sink. "Go with Knock Out and assist him. He's right about getting there faster. I just hope he's wrong about everything else. Now go!"

I remember I had to gather up my courage in that moment. I had to try and steel myself for what I might see, because, like I said earlier, everything had been going so well. That's not to say it wasn't rough and tumble, but the fatal ordeals had stopped or should have stopped. Old traumas of the past were brought back; not that they ever really left to begin with. The deep-rooted anxiety ushered in by life on the threshold and the accustomed fear led in by the ominous presence of death. I didn't want to see it again; feel it again, but the ties of family were stronger. I wouldn't let them go through it alone.

Transforming, I had followed Knock Out through the gateway, reaching the other side to see only the heat signature of his tracks on the ground and his fading taillights in the distance. I sped after him, giving no thought to the ruins of Crystal City as we raced deeper into its confines. Ratchet had been able to get us close, but it took a breem or two before I saw Knock Out's brake lights come on. I skidded to a halt beside him and we both transformed to take in fully the sight before us.

I'm not likely to forget Bee's bashed and battered frame lying atop a pile of rubble, precious energon seeping through the wreckage as his optics dimmed out. Or Smokescreen's desperate pleas for Bee to hold on, one servo grasping the prone body's arm while the other pressed to his own damaged side. I will always remember that haunting scene just as much as I'll remember the action it provoked out of our latest member.

Knock Out had surged forward without the slightest hesitation; bounding up the debris and kneeling down near Bumblebee. I couldn't seem to register the look of genuine concern in the ex-Con's optics as he surveyed Bee's wounds. He opened up the medical kit and began pulling equipment out with surprising speed and accuracy. It seemed surreal to me at the time. I had been rooted to my spot in a moment of shock; able to watch but not move. Then, red optics darted up, landing softly on me in features of certified determination and empathy.

"Arcee! I could really use your help over here!" he had shouted with no hint of unkindness, just the force needed to pull me from my numbness.

And that's what I remember most; what had changed my perspective. Knock Out saved Bee's life that day not because he had to, but because he wanted to. The doc still doesn't like taking orders, but he takes them. In fact, looking back I see where I began to notice more of Knock Out's virtues instead of just his shortcomings.

The way he fussed over his patient's care like Ratchet did. The way he listened to troubles carefully and complimented others spontaneously. The way he earned my respect with his veiled compassion. He's not unfeeling.

His willingness to challenge anyone in matters medical or scientific undauntedly. His knack for fierce honesty, seemingly surprising himself as much as us. His ability to trust silent forgiveness when I extended it. He's not a complete coward.

He's invaluable when it comes to welcoming returning Decepticons to Cybertron; able to give us a heads up on a newcomer's reliability or to simply be that presence of familiarity for an old comrade of war. He's dynamic in the art of improvising; capable of strategizing plans on the fly to our full advantage. He's still worthless at keeping track of time, but gifted with a sheepish grin that makes me laugh every time he slinks into an assemblage late. He's not altogether bad.

I don't just see the cheeky, egotistical defector I once did, though there are still times I want to dismantle him . . . No, I've grown to see this dedicated, caring side of him and sometimes I wonder if it's new or if it's always been there. Did he change or did I? Did we both? Whichever way, my new outlook has been a game changer. I can't help but see him as a significant addition to the team now and, more importantly, a member of this family; worthy of my trust and protection. I guess I must see what Bumblebee and Smokescreen saw; what Optimus had seen. So, when Knock Out recently began growing reserved again, I started to worry; we all did.

He retires to his quarters early or works in the labs late. He socializes less and less and withdraws more and more. Some of the newer arrivals are extremely vocal about their doubts in the ex-Con's behavior; Prowl and Swerve being chief among them. Though, I suspect resentment may play a bigger role in the latter's case than actual suspicion. Had it been a stellar cycle ago I probably would have agreed with them; led the pack even, but now . . . now, it's different.

Different because, although I still find some of his eccentricities annoying, I took up the task of looking for Knock Out tonight not because I'm scared he'll betray us, but because I care about him.

What would make him revert back to day one? Had someone said or done something to him? Was it the anniversary of some significant date? Or was he just trying to adjust to life without joyriding on Earth? Who knew? It wasn't like I could ask him outright either; the art of deflection was another talent he possessed.

Honestly, I was anticipating an argument rather than an answer out of him. I tried to prepare myself mentally for the confrontation, but when I actually found him, the scene was so fragile it was unapproachable.

He hadn't seen or heard me yet, so for all intents and purposes, he was alone. All his actions and expressions were real and exposed. It was an authenticity I hadn't gotten from him before. I could see every raw emotion play across his features; ones I've witnessed before and ones I've never seen. Anxiety, guilt, regret, pain . . . Even though I know he's changed, that he's Cybertronian just like me, war had still tainted my ability to believe Cons—ex or otherwise—possessed such depth of emotion. I was forced to dismantle my belief in that instant. The same feelings I've had—that everyone has—were the same Knock Out was having.

He was unguarded and, for once, I could read him.

Part of me had felt it was unfair to take advantage of his lack of awareness, but the rareness and transparency of the moment held my silent attention. I was captivated by it. But, at a certain point, I realized something troubling; he was staring at that drop off rather intently. It scared me.

I had spoken up and his composure trembled then hardened. I could see the shields go up and felt I'd lost the only opportunity of finding out what was bothering him . . . or how I could help. Still, I couldn't erase what I had seen. His sarcasm and audacity were simply cover and his brief pauses of insecurity were awfully telling. I needed to know how serious this was no matter how much resistance he put up because I needed to know if he were safe and I wasn't giving up without a fight.

I was unpredictable, getting him to pay attention with a laugh instead of a glare. I was mysterious, encouraging him to follow me through intrigue rather than obligation. I was persistent, pushing him to react with realness in place of the artificial. I was silent, allowing him to vent and I was indulgent, helping him unwind. It had all been going so well until that upsetting event jarred us both. I don't know what had hidden the chasm from our view, but I clearly saw the sheer panic in his optics as he went over the edge and I felt my spark stopping fear as I skid forward to grab him. My reflexes may have been sharp from eons of training, but my painful memories were even sharper, spurring me headlong into another gamble unthinkingly.

I remember the sting as I slide across the ground . . . I didn't know whether I'd be fast enough . . . I remember the wind howling in my audiles as I grabbed his arm . . . I didn't know whether I'd be strong enough . . . like so many times before, I didn't know. . . but this time, I was.

When he was back up on solid ground, relief and terror filled me in more ways than one. Flashes of Tailgate's death slipped out of the dark corners of my mind while Cliffjumper's memory raced up into my spark. An awakened sense of grief hung over me, as it had so many times before. When does it ever get easier?

But then, it's in remembering Optimus' sacrifice I was prompted to look again and see things a little clearer.

Loss was real, but so was gain. The pain of defeat is there, but so is the joy of our victory. It's not always about what couldn't be saved, but what could. We didn't lose Knock Out tonight and we wouldn't. He wanted to live and that was good enough for me . . . until the laughing started.

It had been beyond me as to why Knock Out found this so hilarious. My small joke to lighten the tension created by our close brush with death wasn't that funny. Maybe I dismissed the self-destruction angle too quickly. But then I noticed the laugh's undertones. The timbre of his voice. He wasn't laughing.

It had taken a moment for me to realize I had stood up, but a conscious effort was needed on my part to walk towards the distress. My spark was thrashing; wrenched with empathy as his bitter laughter turned into choked sadness. He was trying to stifle it. I knew because I'd been there too—just moments ago in fact—trying to shut down the pain and block out the emotions.

 _Closing yourself off from feeling won't help anyone . . ._

A sad smile had come to me. Still good advice after all this time, Cliff, but I hardly think you had an ex-Decepticon in mind. Heck, until now I'd have never believed this mech would cry about anything other than a ruined paintjob. It was overwhelmingly . . . awkward. I started feeling out of place.

I had stopped in front of him, not knowing what to say or if he'd even listen if I did. But I had to do something because . . . I wanted to. So, from an evening holding so many unforeseeable twists and turns, what hadn't I expected?

To wrap my arms around Knock Out in comfort and for him to accept the embrace.

Now, as he cries freely and unashamedly I find his shuttering vents and pitched vocalisms to be all consuming; all encompassing. It's having a powerful effect on me because in him I recognize the sorrow of regret and the anguish of loss. I can see it. Hear it. Feel it. And I realize we share more in common than I thought. It's a familiar feeling, but a foreign concept all at the same time.

As it stirs up my own pain, I want to distance myself from the situation; categorize it as just an unusual event; Knock Out's nervous breakdown. I don't even know why he's crying or what I'm doing. I wonder if I should just draw back; allow him to pull himself together . . . but I don't. I don't withdraw from his suffering and I don't withhold his need for solace. I can't. Even though it hurts, I can't . . .

How long have we been out here and how long are we going to stay like this? Certainly, it's been long enough for the others to be concerned, but I can't interrupt the silence, not yet. More moments pass wordlessly until . . .

"Arcee . . ." he barely gets out around the static in his vocalizer. His tone holds my name as both a question and a statement. I listen as he tries to steady his speech, but his next words are laced in pain.

"I . . . hated that war . . ." he says, agony lingering on the last syllable. The corners of my optics moisten as I tighten my grip around him in silent reassurance because I understand him in this. I am in this.

"I know," I say quietly, "I did too."

Our home may have been restored and the fighting may have stopped, but the real wounds are still there; wounds left behind from eons of death and dying, combat and struggling, protection and destroying . . . Sometimes I ask how this can even work. The confusion and distress created by the sudden ceasefire between such grossly different factions is almost unbearable. It will always be present with us and nothing we say or do can change that.

 _I don't even have a word for it_ . . .

Knock Out's sentiment comes back to mind. I can't be sure what he was talking about, but I believe I have a close guess.

Aftermath. It's what we have and always seemed to have. Every battle lead to a result and every result lead to a new battle; win some and lose some. Thank Primus, we finally won the war, but we're still paying the price and reconciliation won't come easily. I'd be lying if I said I didn't hold some resentment over the past or that I'm not worried about what the future of Cyberton holds, but if we want any chance at keeping our world whole, we're going to need to forgive as tirelessly as we fought.

 _Every sentient being deserves an opportunity for redemption . . . without that hope, we may never achieve lasting peace._

Optimus' words echo in my mind as Knock Out cries in my arms and it's then I realize the connection; Knock Out represents that hope to me. Megatron's disbandment of the Decepticons may have been the turning point, but it's Knock Out who gives us all an opportunity to prove daily what eluded us for eons, a dedication to peace.

He hasn't runaway and we haven't scared him off. He hasn't exacted plans of revenge and neither have we though I'm sure the thought must have crossed all of our processors at some time or another. He's stuck around long enough to be considered loyal and, even though he complains about it constantly, done his fair share of rebuilding, earning our gratitude. He actively resists ambitions for power or desires to incite rebellion though his need to look _fabulous_ sometimes takes on the appearance of both and we forgive him when it does. Even his brief hesitance in accepting the official CMO title for Cybertron in Ratchet's absence and our ability to offer the position to him freely shows the changes we've all made and the efforts it all takes.

Granted, Knock Out still enjoys being praised for a job well done way too much and we still enjoy pestering the poor guy way too often, but he's an encouragement to everyone that bots can and do change—Mm, wouldn't he just love to eat this up if I said it aloud.

I continue to reflect, vaguely aware of the growing strain in my arms and the weakening grip he has around me. I assume the fatigue is from all the excursion we've put ourselves through. Racing around deserted sectors, nearly going over a cliff and all after a full cycle of patrols in my case and medical rounds in his; we're exhausted. I look down and see his optic lids are shut, lubricant now drying away. His intakes are slow and rhythmic now; features relaxed and neutral. He's calmed down. Now what?

Before I can answer that, my receiver crackles to life.

"Arcee," Ultra Magnus' authoritative voice comes over the line. I had been expecting Bee. Sure would have been much easier that way. This should be fun.

"Sir," I say respectfully as I gently nudge Knock Out. He groggily, but promptly pulls away into an upright position, a slightly confused expression on his faceplates. I point to my comm. link.

"I understand you were given the task of locating Knock Out. Have you been successful?"

"Yes, I've found him, sir," I say, maintaining the formality. Even though Ultra Magnus' has learned to lighten up a bit, I know he still appreciates the proper procedures. I look to Knock Out and notice his optics dim before he glances to the ground.

"Why haven't you two returned yet then? Is everything alright?" Magnus asks briskly; his way of showing concern. I'm not too sure how I _should_ answer that question. Bearing witness to a cry session of Knock Out's certainly didn't have _everything's alright_ stamped on it, but I do know what I'd appreciate if it were me instead of him.

"Yes, we're fine," I say, catching my companion's optics as he looks back up at me, "We just hit a few bumps along the way."

"That is . . . good to hear. However, I believe you're still needed on watch duty and our medic has a great deal to account for. Do you require a groundbridge?"

That's when Knock Out abruptly decides to stand up, brushing himself off and giving me an anxious, almost pleading, look. He must have finally tuned into the comm. channels. I sent my optics heavenward. I understand the reasoning behind his reluctance to take a groundbridge; he didn't want to be seen in the state he's in. I can't say I blame him, but a quick transport would be so much easier right now. Plus, isn't he responsible for this whole situation anyway? Mm, he must see my deliberation, because now he's looking away again in that self-assigned defeat of his. I can't believe I'm doing this . . .

"No, sir. I believe we can manage to get back in a timely manner."

"Very well. See you shortly."

As the link closes, I dart my optics back up to Knock Out's outstretched servo. I take it and he helps me up, but we don't immediately let go. Sporting a look of curiosity, he seems poised to ask a question; why maybe. But instead, he awkwardly drops his servo from mine and shrugs.

"I suppose I owe you one," he says in an uncharacteristically quiet voice before transforming and switching on his headlights. He angles his tires in the direction we need to go and waits on me, I guess. I'm kind of . . . surprised. I don't know what I expected, but this seems too composed. No 'this never happened' or 'you better not tell anyone about this or else' from him, just an I.O.U. as if he already trusted my decision; the closest to a 'thank you' I might receive. I give my own shrug.

"I suppose you do," I say—my 'you're welcome' in kind—before changing into alt mode; my headlamps illuminating the scenery ahead. Wow, the contrast between our restored planet's surface and this rundown district's buildings are startling. The backdrop of stars mixed with a clear, moonless sky makes for a stunning view but an unsettling atmosphere. Its pitch black out here and considering we nearly drove down a bottomless pit a few clicks ago, we really probably should have taken that groundbridge. Right. Well, let's get this show on the road.

I rev my engine and drive forward passing him as he straightens out to follow. We travel at a steady pace, keeping an awkward silence along the way. I mean, I really don't have anything to say, but I feel like I should. He's being real quiet too. I wonder if everything's going to be alright now or has it gotten worse? Should I ask him? Will he ask me? Ugh, next time I let Bee come out here and deal with this.

Maybe I'm overthinking it. I should just focus on the drive home, address all this at base . . . but it's too tense a matter to let go of. What am I supposed to do? Ignore the fact this happened? Turn a blind optic? Keep it to myself? But what's the alternative? Report the incident? To whom and how would I go about it? It just doesn't sound right. Again, should I ask him? I mean, I still don't even know why Knock Out started crying in the first place besides . . .

"Arcee, we may need to pick up the pace a little if we want to avoid Magnus sending out a search party for us. You know how restless he is about things like this," he calls out from behind me in his usual spirited manner. Seriously; he's going to sound like he isn't upset at all while I'm up here racking my processor over what's been bothering him.

I don't think so. I've made a decision. It's time to ask him. I apply my brakes, hearing him do the same as we skid to a halt. We stay in vehicular mode.

"Arcee?! What's going on . . .?"

"I can always signal back and have a groundbridge sent," I say forcefully, surprised by my own irritation.

"Oh, well, I suppose . . ." he begins in a less confidant tone, engine idling down a bit. I interrupt him again.

"It was for your benefit I didn't, Knock Out," I say, circling round to face him. He remains silent and I can sense a new form of tension building. I have to remember he's known for his temper too. I decide to soften my voice and focus my frustration more carefully. "All I want to do is help."

"You've already helped enough, thank you," he says curtly. Argh, he's so irritating! . . . But, I choose to cut through his anger and push on further with a surprising amount of compassion.

"I may be able to do more. At least, give me an explanation. You said it yourself, you owe me one."

I hear him let out a low sound; a cross between a sigh and a growl.

"I appreciate what you're doing," he begins in a mixture of annoyance and honesty, before continuing in a tone of unexpected frailty, "But I'm okay now, really. Let's just get back and forget this whole thing, please."

It's my turn to sigh.

"Fine, I'll respect you don't want to talk about it, but I'm still willing to listen," I say with my own blend of emotions; thank goodness for no facial expressions in vehicle mode. Still, my voice wavers when I add, "And I'm not going to forget about this."

I spin back around and begin driving, feeling a significant amount of unease as I do so; he's not following. Did I do the right thing? What if he leaves again? I should have just let it go. Why didn't I let it go? I really am trying to help, but does he know that? The questions and doubts surround me as I keep moving forward, alone. It's only after I finally hear the sound of his engine trailing behind me that I relax.

We roll along for a little while. I commit to the silence this time. If he doesn't want to talk he won't but if he does, he will and this is Knock Out we're talking about . . . he does.

"Are you this aggravatingly persistent with everyone?" he says coolly, pulling up next to me. I give his words some thought. He doesn't mean much by the question, but I decide to speak from my spark, knowing it's what he needs to hear.

"No, just those I care about."

He goes quiet again. I do too. But there's something different in the silence this time; something good. I smile inwardly.

"Arcee? May I ask you something?" he says out of nowhere and I'm startled more by the uncertainty of his voice then its suddenness. He sounds painfully anxious and I get the impression that whatever's wrong is harder for him than he wants to let on.

"Yes."

"Do you," he pauses. I can't say whether he's gathering his thoughts or changing his mind about asking, but I wait and hope it's the former. "Do you ever wish that what you know now you could have known then?"

. . . Okay, that's extremely broad.

"How do you mean?" I ask, trying both to narrow down his inquiry and understand his reason for the request.

"Well, let me put it this way. If you could go back, in time that is, would there be anything you'd have done differently?"

. . . That's . . . an intense question coming from him; one I wonder if he'll be willing to answer himself. I'm keen to find out, but I'm also wary of answering. Listening is one thing, but sharing is another. How open do I really want to be? How much do I actually want to tell him? Maybe I shouldn't have opened up this can of scraplets.

"Well, for starters, I probably wouldn't have volunteered for first shift monitoring duty," I say with humor in my voice, hoping to detour the conversation. I hear him give a short, amused laugh, but I sense his expectant pause. Maybe it's the time of night or the near death experience, but I find myself continuing, "And I would have spent more time with those I cared about. . . ."

Time quietly slips away as we talk and talk and keep talking. The subjects range from important to not so important and back again. We tell of the past, the good and the bad, the pain and the joy, even the annoying and the hilarious and yet, none of it is done in bitterness. When we finally do reach base, I feel strangely calm; a sense of rest I didn't even know I was missing.

I went out searching to help him . . .

But, I may have found it helped me too.

" _Therefore let us pursue the things which make for peace and the things by which one may edify another." Romans 14:19_


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: First, thank you for all the nice reviews. For a story that was only going to be a one shot, I just keep writing more. So here is a third installment of . . .

 **Landing Softly**

 _I forgot . . ._

 _We watched Invasion of the Mummy Giants from Mars that night._

 _We thanked the AllSpark we were still around to do so._

 _We defied death once again; reason enough to celebrate._

 _We survived another day; just like the days before it and the many more after._

 _I remember . . ._

 _He asked a simple, yet problematic question at the time: "What happens if we don't win?"_

 _He listened to my brief, vulnerable answer: "I don't know."_

 _He responded with a smug, perceptive tone: "Knowing you; become an Autobot."_

 _He laughed at my fiery, but playful contention: "Over_ _ **your**_ _extinguished spark!"_

 _I think . . ._

 _It was just a joke between us; our usual style of banter. We meant nothing by it._

 _It became a warped sense of foreshadowing; our terrible prophecy. Why had we said it?_

 _It remains a pang in my spark; the guilt I share in. I'll always regret it._

 _It is a memory, a dream and a nightmare; one that should_ _ **never**_ _have been. But that isn't true, is it?_

 _I believe . . ._

 _The loss didn't impose a sadness beyond my ability to cope, just my capacity to feel._

 _The ability to grieve wasn't in me anymore._

 _The past damaged that long before the war began._

 _The problem is I'm right about one and wrong about the other._

 _I hear . . ._

 _'You're alive! I'm glad you made it.'_

 _'You're forgiven. I'll never hold it against you either.'_

 _'You're not what you were. I can finally see who you are.'_

 _'You're home now, partner. I'll always be grateful for that.'_

 _I awake . . ._

My optics flash back online, taking in images faster than I can sort through. My sensors frantically cast a net into the waking world looking for information. Gone are the sixty-foot screens and outdated speakers of a dreamt up drive-in theater; their nostalgia chased away by the permanence of this reality just like so many other things . . . just like Breakdown.

So, where do I find myself today, mm?

It's quiet. Dark. Familiar. And sterile.

I'm in the medbay aboard the newly remodeled Nemesis. Tell the truth, I'd rather be back at the drive-in. Must have worked late again, but I'm lying on a medical berth? Usually, I'm at the console. I wonder why . . . Well, at least I'm alone, thank Primus.

Slowly, I gather myself up into a seated position, vaguely aware of the fog about my processor, but completely conscious of the fatigued, awkwardness of my movements. Have I been sedated?! Alarm surges through me as I vault straight up off the berth, triggering the motion lighting in the process before landing softly on my pedes.

What happened?! Why am I in here?!

I . . . I don't remember! . . . Wait . . . no, it's coming back to me; stupid retrograde amnesia. Arcee and I . . . oh, oh no. I . . . I think I need to lie back down; I'm going to be sick. Please, let me still be dreaming! I couldn't have . . . this can't really be happening to me, can it?

My optics roam the medical outfit, my new domain—well, that is until Ratchet showed up to _survey_ my progress with the new residency program, though the extra set of servos isn't a bad thing. Anyway, I'm searching for something, anything that can refute my fears. I find the complete opposite. Unlocked entrance, powered down computer, nothing pointing to another late night at work. Certainly not promising. Well, maybe I took . . . a . . .

I sigh haggardly. Denial isn't going to help me now, is it?

After Arcee and I returned from our little excursion, we had some fuel and decided to talk more in the rec room. Undoubtedly, that's when I slipped off to dreamland. Argh, I must have thoroughly exhausted myself last night to have fallen into recharge like that. I can't believe I did this! For the love of . . . I might as well have asked for a berthtime story and some warm energon. How embarrassing . . . Still, that only explains why I'm in here . . . _How_ I got up here is the real question.

Obviously, someone brought me, but it's imperative I know who. Arcee, as impressive for a two-wheeler she may be, couldn't have hauled me up on her own nor would she when help was more appropriate. That meant she had to call somebody in. Yeesh, it's bad enough she had to see me balling like a sparkling and babbling like an idiot. But, I suppose I trust her. After all, she did save me from plummeting to my death and a tedious lecture from Magnus—which would have been just as horrible. Then there's the fact she's so easy to talk to . . . Well, nevertheless, having someone else know about this is just too unthinkable.

What if they spread it around? I would never be able to live it down! I'm already seen as a traitor or a coward; I don't want to be seen as a sniveling one at that. But, they wouldn't do that, right? They're Autobots and they don't do things like indulge in idle gossip . . . What am I saying; of course they do! Rumor mills work everywhere with everyone. They'll tear what little of my reputation is left to smithereens!

Okay, stop, stop! For one thing, I am blowing this way out of proportion. For another, since when do I care what others think about me; especially the Autobots? Well, since I became one really; my survival kind of depends on it now.

I can't believe I did this! I wish I could go back and undo this whole thing. Ugh, that was one of the topics of our conversation last night, wasn't it?! Alright, calm down. Arcee didn't tell Magnus anything when we got back and she's not the type to spout out random details . . . but that's no guarantee. For all I know, they could be keeping me in here because they think I'm mentally unstable. Augh! I should have retired to my quarters early like I've been doing, but no. I had to clear my thoughts with a _short_ drive around the block which turned into a _massive_ . . . _emotional_. . . _meltdown_! Enough! I'm being too dramatic. I need to go about this rationally and come up with a suitable course of action; like surgically removing a few vocalizers.

Ah, seriously though, I wasn't restrained to the berth so that's a good sign. Still doesn't help me find who else knows about this. Mm, besides Arcee, Bumblebee and Ratchet remained here while the rest had gone off to enjoy some much needed downtime in New Kaon. Well, most of them did. Magnus doesn't seem to understand the meaning of the phrase _take a break_ , so I guess that still put him here too. Anyway, my reputational fate could be in the servos of the bug, Ole Cog or Ultra Migraine—nicknames given respectively of course.

I begin to pace the length of the medical bay, taking care to measure my steps along the paneled flooring in hopes of not alerting anyone nearby to my wakefulness. The last thing I want is someone coming in to check up on me . . . which makes me wonder, what time is it? How long have I been in power down? Curse this ship's windowless design!

Quickly, I run over to the computer console, frantically queuing up my internal chronometer. As I reach the workstation, my reflection becomes visible in the dormant screen . . . what the . . . ? Are those scratches?! Forget the time. I need a polisher, stat. I look terrible.

I make a swift about-face and head straight for one of my many hidden stashes of esthetic products. Doesn't take long to find what I'm looking for in the crawlspace underneath berth number one. Considering it's not gouges marring my finish just surface nicks, I don't think I'll need to employ the buffer. Still, I believe I deserve showroom shine after what I've been through.

Heh, Mags would blow a gasket if he knew how much _contraband_ I actually have. Honestly, I don't see what the big deal in owning a few Earth-based car care products is. Wasn't he insistent I develop a better appreciation for the terrestrial ball and its inhabitants anyway? After all, it's one of the things I give humans credit for; their careful maintenance regimen to achieve sweet, glossy automobile perfection. Besides, the home grown stuff is still in such ridiculously short supply and I need to look good . . . _why?_

I walk over to an empty workstation and set my things down.

Mm, there's a question I haven't fancied for quite a while; I haven't had to.

I open a jar of carnauba wax and apply some of the sweet smelling stuff to a clean polishing cloth.

Looking good is routine; a part of who I am, but as to why I need my appearance at its absolute best . . . do I even need a reason anymore?

I sneer in disgust. Of course I don't. Know what, let's not even go there. I've had quite enough _self-reflection_ time, thank you very much . . . but I wonder if it has anything to do with that survival aspect . . . no, that's enough. Let's focus on rubbing these blemishes out. This always makes me feel better and I need that right now. Still, I can't seem to get my mind to leave the topic alone. Argh, it's like I can't think about anything else . . .

It's not like I allow my vanity to get the better of me, do I? Yeah, right. It derailed me from checking what time it is for Primus sake!

But what's wrong with wanting to look good? Besides, I have a bigger issue to think about. I still don't know who else saw me like this or how it will be interpreted by the others and . . . that's my vanity talking, isn't it? . . .

Know what, who cares. I don't. If the whole planet thinks I'm a sorry, self-absorbed jerk, at least I'll be a gorgeous one. Nothing's come of my disposition yet and a few more clicks of polishing aren't going to matter.

I focus on working out the flaws in my mesh like I've done so many times before, clearing my thoughts and recalling the feeling of Arcee's arms around me . . . wait. What!? No!

I stare at the marigold color scheme the others insisted upon for this ship's makeover, calming my spark and remembering the taste of my own hopes and fears in last night's chat. Stop it! Please.

I buff more vigorously, listening to the soft hum of equipment and suddenly evoking the sound of Optimus' voice from memory: _'Every sentient being possesses the capacity for change._ ' Seriously?! What is wrong with me? Am I losing it?

I briskly set into more scrubbing and begin to pace again; faster this time. Isn't this supposed to be soothing? Mind-numbingly soothing. Why isn't it working?!

"Fine, since you're so insistent, _insanity_ , let's just dig up my entire foundation of existence, shall we; put it on trial even," I say aloud, trying to chase away the ridiculousness of it all with reason. I desperately want to fall into the familiar, enjoyable state grooming is supposed to cause, but I find myself mentally continuing the argument instead.

Accusation: Do I feel I'm vainglorious? Pushy? Self-important? Manipulative? Demanding? Egotistical? Resentful? Hostile? Cold?

Plea: Yes, yes I do; guilty as charged; I know I am. But, I had to be. It goes back to that whole survival thing. Happy now? . . . No? Well, let's take a look at the circumstances surrounding my life up until recently.

I was a Decipticon—as if I need to go any further than that—but for the sake of argument, it was where presence of strength, possession of skill and place of status meant everything. Pathetic didn't cut it. If you didn't fit the part of lethal, useful or important you were pretty much cannon fodder. I didn't want to be cannon fodder so I needed to get into one of those three categories. No problem, right? Ha, everything was a problem.

For instance, the easiest way to ensure rank was to be huge. Larger frames support more threatening alternative forms. After all, what's more terrifying than the sight of a tank rumbling towards you. Being aerial wasn't a bad option either. The sound of fighter aircraft and spy drones thundering across the sky was downright frightening. And let's not forget the brute strength or deadly arsenal that normally accompanied these aforementioned sorts.

Now, sure, a larger bot could compact themselves into something slightly smaller if they chose to, but a smaller bot could never stretch out to something bigger—that whole law of conservation of mass thing. Well, guess who couldn't be a Stryker? So, why not flight? I'll get to that soon. Anyway, scratch physical strength off the list; next please.

Mm, being insanely skilled or innately privileged worked. If you were a scientist who could invent anything just by brooding over it—shout out to you Shockwave—or a warrior capable of shooting a turbofox from two hundred clicks away you were guaranteed promotion, i.e. safety. Even devious planning and backstabbing seemed to be an admirable skill set to have; it served Starscream well anyway. Others, like Soundwave and Dreadwing, seemed to have a history that placed them in roles of esteem automatically. I wasn't any of these, really. I was the doctor—not that doctor—and I don't know what kind of reality my former compatriots were living in, but doctor didn't carry the same amount of prestige with them as it should have. In fact, it was said like an insult; like I had a glitch or something. Thus, I was struck from two more categories. Hopeless, right? Not quite. I discovered a fourth set of criteria.

I had to approach things differently . . . for example:

My small, ground-based form.

Solution: versatility.

Luxury sports cars didn't exactly strike fear into the sparks of many, but they were quick and maneuverable. Fast enough to get out of dodge when needed; stealthy enough to get into places others couldn't; not to mention a range of options in between. But aircraft can offer the same things; why not flight? Why not completely conform? I'll tell you why. I wasn't about to give up the only part I still had control over or the camaraderie it provided Breakdown and I. Oh, and we can't leave off how remarkably chic high-end automobiles are too; important to the whole vanity point after all . . .

Alright, second issue; my mediocre skills.

My solution: versatility again.

Jack of all trades, master of none; a human expression I think fits nicely—way to go fleshies. Anyway, I wasn't just a doctor, scientist, warrior, scout or whatever but a combination of all these and more. If my inadequacies surfaced in one area my merits would shine through in another always creating balance. It's what I think surprises the Autobots now, in fact. But, as long as my wins outweighed my losses, status quo could be maintained keeping me in a safe position. I wish I could say this worked for everyone, but I can't . . . which kind of reminds me of the third problem:

My supposed insignificance.

Solution: ding, ding, ding . . . you guessed it, versatility.

Self-confidence is not just some cute buzzword, but a multifaceted weapon to wield in all manner of combat. I knew exactly what my strengths were and broadcasted them loud and proud. I also knew my limitations, learned to hide them well and never purposefully stepped out of them. It earned me a certain level of respect. My nonchalant attitude, over the top mannerisms and cutting sarcasm kept them guessing. Whether it was with a subordinate, an equal or Lord Megaton himself, I would speak frankly, act casually and live boldly because I had to measure up to the unique reputation of self-assurance I had built. A mix of façade and nature backed by a partner no longer here . . .

Which leads into what I really don't want to think about. How my past with the Decepticons is only part of the equation. How my problems started before the war and marched right alongside me in the form of desperation, confusion and imbalanced friendship . . . And there it is; the pain.

My pacing slows and I allow my arms to drop to my sides.

The bitter education I received in joining the Decepitcons only sharpened the cruel lessons I had already learned and endured before. Luckily, I caught on quick, but I don't believe I'll ever forget my inadequacies as a result of them.

I stop in front of the full-length reflection apparatus I insisted on being in here. I stare at my image, both admiring and admonishing it just like so many vorns ago and ever since; echoes of past fears murmuring in my audiles.

 _Am I right? Please, tell me what will work. I feel so confused. Am I worthy? Encourage me. I feel so insignificant. Am I safe? Protect me. I feel so doomed. Will I ever be happy? Help me live again. I feel so empty._

Then follows the angry guidance, roaring through my mind.

 _Don't let them know how you really feel. You're better than that. Make life work for you no matter what. Good enough is never good enough. Look like a punching bag and you'll be a punching bag. Never let them see you crack. You must look good to feel good. Watch out for number one only._

Half my survival, my sanity, hinged on these values learned the hard way, but that's all they preserved; half of me. They couldn't save it all and they couldn't save what counted; my only friend. Contrary to popular belief, I don't always see perfection when I look in a mirror. Always striving, never satisfied, forever condescending, forever jealous, forever superficial and completely oblivious. For all my hard earned skills and ingrained dogmas, I'm starting to see none of them will help me here anymore and I believe that's the hardest lesson of all . . .

I can't stand it!

"What is wrong with me?!"

This kind of scrap hasn't bothered me in eons. Why do I care now? For crying out loud, I'm standing around here having an argument with myself like a crazy bot! That's why I don't dwell on the past; no regrets, no fuss. I'm just reliving yesterday . . .

I glower at my reflection as stupid lubricant beads at the corners of my optics. I am not weak! I stomp back over to the platform to tidy up, not caring if the whole ship hears me at this point. I've probably got tons of data work to enter in and a long-winded lecture on self-care from Ratchet to hear about . . .

 _Swish_. What was that?!

The automatic door opens and I can't help but direct my sights at it with a startled yelp, accidently dropping my container of polish. Ugh, Arcee strikes again. I swear she's trying to give me a spark attack!

But, in her defense, she looks just as surprised as I am. I quickly reclaim my composure, making sure my irritation is palpable. I'm certainly not giving an encore performance of last night and I don't want to say or do anything else to embarrass myself further. Though, this could be an opportunity to find out how I ended up in here . . . no, I don't care anymore. I have to shut down any and all conversation, period.

"You're awake. Feeling any better?" she asks in such a way all comments about her rude entry vanish from my processor. She sounds so genuinely concerned; so innocently disarming. I hate it. How am I supposed to work with that, huh? Anger? Indifference? Honesty!? That's what got me into this mess to begin with; all this sappy Autobot stuff.

No, I choose deception.

"Fine, never better. It's amazing what a full cycle of power down can do. Granted, I could have used another round of energon last night, but you know," I say smoothly, tracking her movement towards me and wishing my spark would stop pounding. I've never been this nervous about lying before. I must be afraid she'll catch me in it or something. She is rather perceptive . . . and quiet.

I watch as she keeps coming closer and closer before . . . she bends down? Oh, right; the jar of polish. She picks it up and stands, a bit stiffly I might add. She looks to me, then to the jar and back to me. I wish she would say something already. I can't gauge whether her quirked optic ridge is from suspicion or judgement, not that I should care what she thinks anyway . . . Ah, she speaks.

"Fine, huh?"

Mm, definitely sounds like suspicion, but wait, she continues.

"Wasn't it you who said you can tell a lot about a bot based on their upkeep?" she says before reading the label, "California Crystal Carnauba Wax; An exclusive. Sounds a bit indulgent to me."

And there's the judgment, though I can't seem to get away from the way she said indulgent . . . Bah, I don't know what she's getting at. Obviously, she's implying I'm not alright, but why . . . because of car wax!?—which she could use by the way. And why does she suddenly care whether I'm fine or not, anyhow? Why is she even here? Ugh.

"Well, only the best for the best," I say with a winning smile, taking the container from her as she offers it and seeing a wisp of discomfort from her as I do so, "How are you?"

"Fine. A little tired, but fine," she says lightly, but I can tell pain when I hear it. Obviously, I'm not the only one lying here. Now, I'm intrigued. I set the container of wax back on the table and look to her.

"Good, good. Well, if you're done checking up on me, I believe I have work to do."

"Actually, that's part of the reason I came in here . . ." she begins before I interrupt.

"Really? Wouldn't have anything to do with that arm, would it?" I ask pointedly, gesturing to her right limb. The astonished look on her faceplate causes me to smirk at first. She wasn't expecting that from me but, honestly, neither was I. A frown replaces my humor. Was she injured last night?

I mean, that was an awful lot of strain for one individual to handle, especially someone of her frame size. Had she hyperextended an orthogonal joint? Or torn a S.E. cable? Is it inhibiting her range of motion?

"Well, Ratchet already had a chance to look at it last night; said it was a strain," she states, glancing down at the appendage.

"Oh," I say simply, but she looks back up at me as if I gave an exposition.

"But it doesn't hurt to have a second opinion," she adds sympathetically. Humph, as if I need her sympathy. At least now I have an answer to my 'whose privy' dilemma. Yup, definitely a long sermon on self-care in my future.

"No, no. I'm sure Ratchet covered all the basics."

"Yeah, and it does _nothing_ for how sore I am now," she says, clutching the offending arm. Huh, knowing her as I do now, I'm starting to have my own suspicions.

"I'm surprised old fussbot, Ratchet, didn't fit you with a brace unless, of course, you took the liberty of removing it, mm?"

She doesn't respond immediately; a sure sign of guilt. Normally, I have little tolerance for difficult patients, but when she looks up at me with the cutest, sheepish optics . . . well, I find myself being charmed into benevolence. Just one of the many contrasts between my old and new life.

"Tsk, tsk, Arcee. Disobeying doctor's orders; not very conscientious of you."

"Right, like you don't know anything about violating orders," she says in irony. Oh, I'm all about the sarcasm.

"Of course not, my dear," I declare with mock indignity, "I am, after all, a professional above all else."

"Well, would the professional mind getting the lady something for the pain or is he too busy applying _prohibited_ substances to his finish?" she says, grinning in that self-satisfied way of hers. I must admit, that was a pretty good comeback . . . Wasn't I supposed to shut down any and all conversation?

"Follow me," I say, conceding defeat and moving off to one of the cabinets containing the pain inhibitors. I hear her short laugh; a token of her victory in our little battle of wits. It both annoys and enlivens me. I could just let it go; should just let it go . . . but, as I take in the different tools at my disposal, the desire to get back at her is too strong. "So, I believe you had something to tell me."

"Yes, there's going to be . . . What is that?!" she exclaims as I pull out a relatively harmless, yet intimidating looking device. I believe it's the rather long, rather sharp crossover tweezers which set bots on edge. Heh, whatever, the look of horror on her is priceless.

"Oh, this," I say innocently, twisting the tool between my digits and giving it a proper showing, "They're forceps; used for surgeries and dissections mostly. Can act as a heat sink for those less apt at the art of soldering and provide a means of switching off pain receptors."

She keeps giving me this look which teeters between nervousness and scandal. She doesn't know whether to ask "are you being serious?" or "seriously?!"

Oh, I just have to hold this straight face long enough to deliver the punchline . . .

"But they're real value comes from turning bad-mannered patients into agreeable ones," I say smoothly, a small grin creeping out at the end. Uh oh, those optics look like null-rays. I think I might have actually upset her. Not really my intention, but then I notice her smile.

"You have a warped sense of humor, Knock Out. You know that?" she states with a shake of her helm. I can't quite place why, but it's amazing how relieving the laughter in her voice feels.

"I like to think of it as . . . clever," I say with just the right amount of sincerity to it.

"Well, whatever you call it; not funny," she says with a little more weight. I place the instrument back.

"Alright, my apologies, Arcee. However, rest truly is the best course of medicine in this case and nothing works better than keeping the area immobile," I say, catching the slight disappointment in her features, "Fortunately, there is an effective alternative."

I smile as her optics brighten; happy patient, happy doctor. Reaching back into the supplies, I pull out a vial of cooling emollient and a spool of covering foil. I nod back towards the medical table and she heads for it, clearing a workspace for me; thoughtful of her. I place down the materials and gesture to her arm with open servos . . .

"May I?"

Without the slightest hesitation, she offers up her arm and I'm surprised by her confidence. I realize Arcee's never had any personal medical assistance from me before—a commendable feat considering I've already seen most of the bots on this planet twice—but not too long ago we were staunch adversaries; I expect there to be some uncertainty. Pugh, some Decepticons still deal with me in uneasy compliance and I can't say I blame them.

 _Trust was too precious and fragile at present_. . . my thoughts of last night floating back to me. So, I wonder if it's inexperience or trust I'm seeing now?

I take her arm gently, silently wrestling against that question and its answer. She breaks up my deliberation with a statement I didn't quite catch.

"Come again," I say a little too timidly for my liking.

"There was something else I thought you should know," she says in a tone I can only describe as warningly.

"Let me guess," I interrupt briskly, "Ultra M wants another 'coaching' with me, today."

"Not where I was going, but definitely a possibility," she says with a laugh.

"I don't see what's so funny," I state reaching down to grab the cooling gel, "You've never had to sit through performance evaluations that felt more like disciplinary actions before."

"Doctor, I recommend you watch your tone," she says in a firm, stern voice deeper than her usual. Is she impersonating Ultra Magnus? A genuine laugh escapes me and she looks to me with an astute smile. "You better not tell him I said that."

"Cross my spark," I say in mirth, applying the balm to her joints, "Good impression though."

"Mm, yeah, but Ultra Magnus is fair, Knock Out," she says seriously I note, "Maybe if you didn't give him so many opportunities to penalize you, there'd be less coaching."

"Well, not all of us are content with daily grind and protocol. Forgive me if I dare try and have a little fun or relaxation," I say with more spite than I meant to let out. I know she's right; Magnus is decent and its why some of my insecurities of the past bubble up. I don't feel like having this conversation.

"Just a suggestion. What is this stuff anyway? Smells . . . strong," she says, gesturing to the emollient and, commendably, changing the subject.

"It's the stuff you'll be putting on every morning until the pain subsides. You'll want to keep it wrapped too," I smile, handing her the bottle and picking up the foil.

"Maybe I should have stuck with the brace, huh?" she says turning the blue vial in her servo and giving me a smirk. I shrug a bit as I focus on wrapping her arm.

"You'll get less stares with this treatment plus a little more movement, but I am going to have to ask you to reframe from any heavy lifting."

"Thanks. You know, it's your fault this happened in the first place."

"Uh, how was I supposed to know a giant crevice opened up over there? It used to be all solid ground," I state defensively.

"That didn't cause this. It happened when I caught you from slipping out of your seat in the rec room. Twisted it the wrong way against the counter."

"Oh," I say simply, trying to conceal my embarrassment. Why didn't I just retire early last night?

"Yeah, _oh_. That's the second time I saved you from a fall. Let's try and be a little more careful from now on, okay?" she says in a joking tone. Part of me is still mortified by the circumstances surrounding her injury while another wants to be offended at her jab. I chuckle instead.

"Thank you. Certainly not one of my better evenings I'll admit, but I assure you I didn't come out completely unscathed either."

"Really?" she asks with just a touch of delicious concern. I can't resist jabbing back.

"Yes. You left quite a few scratches on my finish with your little rescues," I say humorously, though there is a hint of allegation there. She promptly rolls her optics. She seems to do that a lot.

"Sorry, Knock Out. I'll remember to bring a buffer next time I need to save your life."

"See that you do," I say with a grin, placing the foil back down and releasing her arm. As she admires my handy work, I focus in on the fact she has a ridiculous amount of nicks herself. Seeing as she's my patient now, we're definitely going to have to fix that. "And while we're on the subject of buffing . . ."

"Seriously! I'm not interested in cleaning up your paintjob especially when . . ."

"Ahem, more like I'll be the one attending to your paintjob," I interrupt dryly as I turn to retrieve a tool suitable for the job from my stash.

"Oh," she says simply.

"Yeah, _oh_. You misjudge me, Arcee. I can be considerate too, you know. Besides, I'm already in impeccable condition. Ah, this should work nicely," I say coming back to the table with one of my smaller rotary buffers and a variety of application pads.

"Sorry."

"Apology accepted," I say dismissively before holding up the buffer, "Now, should we get started?"

"Um, if you don't mind, I think I can manage it myself," she says politely, reaching for the device with her good servo.

"Suit yourself," I concede, handing it over. Mm, I wonder what she thinks of me . . . yikes. Where did that come from?!

"And Knock Out?" she asks.

"Huh?"

"You missed a spot."

What! I look down, scanning every inch of myself for imperfections. I don't see any so I glance back to her for clarification only to find a poorly concealed grin. It's my turn to roll my optics.

"Really now? Are you always this nice to your rescuees?" I ask smartly, anticipating a clever retort. I receive silence instead. I look to her and watch in concern as she appears to freeze. Soon, brief tremors begin to rock her frame and her grip on the buffer grows vice like. Is she having a negative reaction to the cooling gel?! Great, just what I need; medical malpractice. I circle round the table and stop in front of her. The way she's staring off into nothing alarms me. "Arcee?"

Her optics dart up to me revealing panic and little recognition almost as if she were experiencing a . . . flashback. Arcee? Trauma? I didn't think . . . I didn't know . . . Primus, did I trigger something?

"Arcee. Arcee, you're safe. We're aboard the reclaimed Nemesis, remember?" I say in a calm, quiet voice, instinctively remembering years of experience with shock and trauma. But it's more than training, isn't it? I remember all the things she shared with me last night; all the things she had to endure too. I'm genuinely upset to see a bot as tough as Arcee shaken like this and it frightens me that I care so much. I want to soothe her pain because it hurts me too. No, it's not just training. It's an empathy and compassion for someone closer to me; the surprise of knowing I'm still capable of it. Maybe this sappy caring stuff isn't as off-putting as I believed it was or as I've been made to believe. Just unfamiliar. Unpracticed.

And as I watch her troubled features begin to still, I hear . . . _You're not what you were. I can finally see who you are. You're home now, partner. And I'll always be grateful for that._

 _" . . .To put off your old self, which belongs to your former manner of life and is corrupt through deceitful desires,_ _and to be renewed in the spirit of your minds, and to put on the new self, created after the likeness of God in true righteousness and holiness." Ephesians 4:22-24_


	4. Chapter 4

**Landing Softly**

I didn't anticipate Arcee being here.

Humph, I didn't think Knock Out would still be here.

But here they are, speaking to each other in hushed tones. They've yet to notice I've even walked in. Mm, I can only speculate what their talking about as I'm too far to hear, but whatever it is they're discussing, it must be humorous; Knock Out looks rather jovial. I can't tell if Arcee is or not; her back's to me, but I have an unobstructed view of him. He's knelt down in front of her in somewhat of a disarming fashion. Given his particular background, it's surprising how . . . good-natured Knock Out can be when he wants to. It never ceases to amaze me. However, from what I've heard, he also has a reputation with difficult patients. His official statement on the matter is, and I quote:

" _You try treating someone as impossible as Starscream, mm. Then you can lecture me on my bedside manner."_

If only he knew. Perhaps, I should share with him my own experiences doctoring the infamous Decepticon commander sometime.

Hmm, speaking of difficult patients, I see Arcee took off her brace. After Bulkhead, she's the most resistant to medical care. I try not to take it personally, but I can't help but notice the cooling balm and wrapping foil on the worktable. She's allowing Knock Out to retreat her wrist; interesting. Makes me wonder if Bumblebee is on to something there. Well, my curiosity about that situation is going to have to wait. I've a lot of things to accomplish and little time to do so; some of which involves speaking with Knock Out about his welfare.

I lightly cue my vocalizer to grab their attention, but, the way these two jump up, you'd of thought I fired a shot. Neither of them say anything, which I find rather odd and a little awkward. If I didn't know any better, it would appear these two were embarrassed. But Arcee is rather composed in manner and, Primus knows, Knock Out's shameless. Still, they're downright speechless, so I decide to guide the conversation instead.

"Hello, Arcee. Knock Out. Good to see you're both feeling better," I greet walking further into the infirmary.

"Hello, Ratchet," Arcee finally responds casually.

"Good morning, doctor," Knock Out says with a smirk. He knows I'm not keen on title salutations, but I let that slide as there is a more glaring problem with his statement.

"It's afternoon, Knock Out," I say simply, giving him a slightly confused look, I'm sure. Arcee nearly laughs while his confidant demeanor falters for a moment. He mumbles something about scratches and windows before crossing his arms.

"Noted."

"Well, I can see you two were in the middle of something. You may finish up with what you were doing but, Knock Out, I need to see you about supervision afterward. I'll be in the auxiliary office; still need to finish entering in those OMI reports," I say as I begin to cross the room. My colleague nods before unfolding his arms and gesturing towards the buffer in Arcee's servo. That, too, is interesting.

"Take it with you, but, please, bring it back," he states discreetly all the while trying to obscure a jar on the table from my sight. Some kind of prohibited finish care product no doubt. Mm, he's grown more conscientious since my last visit. I keep on walking, pretending not to notice for now. After all, I already know about the stockpile underneath berth number one and I haven't informed Ultra Magnus yet. It's not very high on my priority list. I've got hundreds of things to consider at present and this past week's findings were chief among them.

Combined with what I've been hearing lately from the others and the medical readings I acquired last night, I gather Knock Out's not doing as well as he appears to be. No one has directly spoken to him about it, but plenty of bots are willing to speculate and that includes leadership.

Ordinarily, I wouldn't bother with this sort of thing. I never liked the idea of Knock Out joining us in the first place. It just always seems to create unnecessary tension within the team. Besides, it's nearly impossible to collect any information from my counterpart which isn't entirely surprising, considering his past station in life. If I understand correctly, Decepicons didn't particularly like trusting others and that went double for their medic. That's evident in Knock Out's vastly different ideology towards medicine, though, I must admit, I respect his adaptability and willingness to challenge "conventional" wisdom. Still, I don't agree with everything Knock Out believes and I'll taper any praise I give him until I see progress in these areas.

Then again, he has shown considerable improvement since working with us. I haven't heard any significant qualms about him from the rest of the team and he's diligent in his work. However, the fact he's been so cooperative only serves to make the relationship between us more complicated. I don't like him, but I don't hate him either. He's a Decepticon turned Autobot and we've benefited greatly from it thus far. So, with all things considered, it's why I'm willing to make an exception and get involved, though I'm not looking forward to it.

As I walk into the secondary wing of the infirmary, I hear the two exchange more dialogue in soft voices before the door shuts behind me. Bumblebee's told me before, that out of all of us, it appears Arcee is the easiest for Knock Out to communicate with. I suppose it could be he sees her as less threatening than the others, but something tells me there's more to it than that, especially given their mannerisms. Arcee is such a fiercely dedicated and reserved kind of bot while Knock Out seems so flamboyant and unattached; I can't imagine the two of them getting along very well unless they had something in common. Ha, too bad she couldn't talk to him about all this. Well, I hope they finish up soon so I can get this colleague-to-colleague chat over and done with.

For now, let's focus on those OMIs until he gets in here.

I boot up the console at my disposal in the small office and begin moving data from the Nemesis' main archives to subsequent files designated for medical records. It's a slow, tedious procedure, but one which has to be done. Too bad Knock Out is only allowed to enter in data and not reallocate it or else he'd being doing this . . . too bad about a lot of things actually.

I sigh. I don't want to travel down this thought pattern long, but there were so many different outcomes I wished for and so many I hoped against. Cybertron was restored, but not without cost. Bittersweet seems to be an understatement, but no other sentiment applies. All those eons together, Optimus and I, fighting and surviving, finally witnessing Megatron's defeat and bringing back our home world only to lose my oldest and dearest friend to some cruel twist of fate; it still feels like a betrayal.

Logically, I know there was no other choice, no other way; a sacrifice that had to be made, but it still translates to abandonment to my spark. Thankfully, I'm no longer plagued by the guilt of 'what ifs', but the loss is still felt immeasurably. There are too many reminders of my grief, both here and on Earth. Take into account the council's insistence that Team Prime disband and it adds even greater strain on my existence. Hopefully, our plans work out and I can finally get the peace I'm in desperate need of, but, for now, I'll focus on logging these files instead.

About halfway through the process, I realize . . . I'm halfway through the process. For mercy's sake, Knock Out, how long does it take to treat a sprain?

"Hmm, I don't know sometimes . . ." I mumble to myself as I head back through the door; half expecting the main room to be empty, but it's not. Knock Out's still there, standing quietly by the workstation and staring at the closed infirmary doors. He looks confused, stunned perhaps, but he quickly takes notice of me.

"My apologies for the wait. She just left . . ." he says with a certain element of distraction in his voice. Yes, there is definitely something going on between those two, but, before I have a chance to address that, his usual charisma returns. "Well, let's get this party started, shall we?"

"It is not a party, Knock Out. It is supervision; something you appear to require a lot of," I say flatly. He frowns.

"Hilarious," he deadpans, taking a few steps closer before adding, "So, what have I done wrong this time?"

I want to sigh tiredly, but I don't. I need him to listen not argue. We also need some privacy. I motion for him to follow me into the auxiliary room and he does so. After closing the door behind us, I turn to see his bored expression and try to think of best way to approach this. I've been told praising someone's work normally got you a more manageable conversation, so even though I know this is only going to inflate his ego; even though I want to taper any approval I give him; the gratitude is real and, for Knock Out, this should work.

"For starters . . ."

"Here we go," he grumbles, rolling his optics and crossing his arms. I continue without missing a beat.

"You haven't done anything wrong. In fact, it's quite the opposite. You've done an excellent job with the new residency program. The trainees are showing development and I'm recommending you continue overseeing the venture."

"Oh, well ah . . . yes, . . . thank you."

His expression is priceless. Humility looks good on you, Knock Out. You should wear it more often. Of course, I keep that thought to myself.

"Uh-huh, and everything appears to be well structured. All the records are in order, the inventories are fully stocked and it's been a long while since I've seen a practice so well organized," I say in all honesty and, ah-ha, there it is. That smug, self-assured smirk of his. He's trying to remain casual, but it's easy to see he's genuinely pleased with himself.

"Well, what can I say? I'm keen on running a neat and clean operation. Quality doesn't happen all on its own, you know," he says while uncrossing his arms and practically purring with pride. Ordinarily, I'd be put off by such self-importance, but I know it's just a facet of his personality and it isn't like he receives this kind of praise very often.

"I won't argue with you there," I say lightly. I'll allow him to bask in a job well done for now because, ultimately, the rest of our discussion is going to be tough to get through. Unfortunately, it appears he's seen through me. His expression becomes more suspicious.

"Aren't you being surprisingly gracious today? Any particular reason or did you just wake up on the sunny side of the street this morning?" he asks evenly. I can't help but vent in frustration at the antagonizing tone of his voice.

"Maybe, if I wasn't interrupted, mocked or accused every time I spoke with you I'd be a little gracious more often," I snap. His optics narrow.

"Just get to the point, already; end this little charade of a supervision."

So much for discretion. I should have let Bumblebee or Ultra Magnus handle this, but they don't have the medical aspect of this either. If only I had half the patience Optimus did . . . No, I certainly couldn't afford to go down that train of thought right now. Maybe Knock Out's correct; let's get straight down to business.

"You remember the main catalog project?" I say calmly.

"Yes. But I thought we still had a ways to go on it," he drawls with more intrigue than anger this go around. I nod.

"Well, thanks to you and Raf's on and off again help, I was able to finally access the rest of those encrypted files from the Nemesis' mainframe and Darkmount's databases, including the location of Decepticon storage sites on this and several other planets. That's not to mention the research data and subjective logs of Shockwave, Starscream and even Megatron himself."

"Good for you," he says snidely, but his expression is distant as if he's unsure what to make of this information; wary perhaps. I don't blame him. These days, information has the potential to be dangerous and, in this case, it is. I decide to choose my next words carefully.

"The council, of course, already had access to your own notes and partial records, but now it appears there'll be more information at their disposal."

I notice his optics shift focus from mine to various locations in the room, before quickly returning to me. His gaze is more calculating. I imagine, he's connecting the pieces together and he doesn't like what he sees. Again, I don't blame him, because I don't necessarily like it either; it messes with my views on the matter.

"They want to try my case," he states numbly, placing one servo to the side of his helm.

"No, they want to review your case in light of the new information. I doubt it will move to trial. I can't see them coming to any different conclusions than we did before, Knock Out," I say calmingly.

"Well, excuse me if I don't find that reassuring right now," he snaps, rapidly moving his arms up and outward in an irritated fashion. He seems to regret the outburst, however, as he looks away. In a much more subdued voice, he asks:

"When are they going to review it?"

"As soon as they finish reading through all the data, I'm sure," I state seriously. He shutters his optics.

"But I'm part of the team. You guys . . ."

"Are not fully in charge, anymore, I'm afraid."

"Scrap."

"Please, try and keep things in perspective. You're not the only one on their radar and you're certainly not the most grievous on their list . . ."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?! Gee, should I be grateful or insulted," he says irritably, proceeding to pace in a small circle. Hmm, he's already agitated and to think, this is only the beginning.

"Knock Out . . ."

"Here I was thinking this was going to be a lecture on self-care and instead you're telling me there's a chance I may be locked up," he exclaims anxiously.

"Knock Out, no one's going to . . .!"

"Why are they even doing this, anyway? Don't we have more important things to worry about like the reconstruction of society? Our planet?!"

"Knock Out, listen to me . . ."

"The war's over, isn't it? Am I wrong? I mean, yes, things happened but . . ."

"Knock Out!" I shout, growing anxious myself.

"It's not fair! Someone like Wheeljack gets to slaughter, literally, millions of Decepticons in ways outlawed by both sides and he's considered a war hero while I interrogate a few dozen Bots under posted guidelines and am deemed a war criminal. How is that fair?!" he rages. The comment infuriates me, but it's clear his underlying motivation is fear. I need to hold on to perspective myself . . .

"Will you stop it!?"

"What exactly are in those records, anyway?" he expresses, still pacing, but looking to me nervously. I sigh.

"Funny you should ask."

"Well, I'm not laughing," he retorts bitterly. I shake my helm. What he doesn't know is that I've yet to deliver his data to the council and it's not through a lack of diligence on my part. I purposely withheld Knock Out's detailed reports for a great number of reasons, but, the main one concerns his wellbeing.

"I haven't supplied the council with anything of yours yet."

He stops pacing and turns towards me. He seems astounded at first, but this quickly gives way to mistrust.

"Why not? What do you want?" he asks in such a cold, dark tone it actually catches me off guard, but it's not enough to rattle my resolve.

"I don't want anything from you, except maybe some honest answers," I say firmly, turning to face him squarely. He sizes me up carefully. If he's planning on a physical confrontation he's sorely outmatched.

Placing one servo on his hip and the other to his chin, Knock Out's whole demeanor shifts to one of indifference.

"Is that all?" he states flatly, but his optics hold an edge. I've learned to trust the optics over the tone of voice through the millennia. He's still agitated.

"Please, just listen," I implore him with as much serenity as I can muster. He lets out a long, slow vent, allowing his arms to drop by his sides. He nods; a little less tense. Suddenly, I'm not so sure where to start.

"I don't want to get into an argument," I say simply, trying to bide my time as I put my thoughts together. He stares at me in annoyance, but waits for me to continue. I decide to speak frankly; it's the only way I know how to communicate matters like this. "I don't object to our new government making informed decisions nor do I disagree with their commit to the ideals of justice and peace. However, I'm also fully aware those ideals rest very much in an Autobot's favor at present."

"But, I am an Autobot," he says defensively. I nod.

"Yes, you are and that's why I told them you'll be presenting the records with me once we go over them."

"Seriously?" he says with what I can only describe as uncertain relief.

"We'll take a look at it after we address my next concern . . ."

"There's another concern?! What could be more concerning than this?!" he blurts out. I give him a weary look and he offers an apologetic smile. "Sorry, please, continue."

"I'd be lying if I said I was only interested in the . . . professional aspects of this problem, Knock Out."

"Professional aspects? What do you mean?"

"I mean, I'm concerned for your personal well-being, too."

"Oh, that," he says with a cool smirk, his relaxed attitude returning, "I didn't know you cared, but I suppose I should have guessed you wouldn't have left that off. So, what did Arcee tell you?"

"Nothing," I say simply. He shutters his optics a few times as if in disbelief.

"Really?" he asks skeptically. I have to resist the urge to scowl.

"Should she of?" I question with equal suspicion. He sighs.

"Look, I take very good care of myself if you haven't noticed and yesterday was just a fluke. I had a particularly grueling schedule and must have underestimated how drained I was. That's all."

For an ex-Decepticon, he's certainly not very apt at the art of falsehoods. Then again, it works against him that I have this . . .

Reaching over to my left, I activate the computer terminal. After tapping in a few commands, his medical dossier appears. I hear his sharp, strangled intake and watch as his nonchalant appearance tightens back into apprehension.

"So, you performed some diagnostic work on me while I was down. Very forward of you," he says insinuatingly.

"It's standard procedure, Knock Out. You know that."

"Yes, and you know that I've requested to do my own examinations," he grinds out.

"Even while you're unconscious?" I scoff.

"Whatever. I don't see what you're worried about," he sneers before returning his gaze to the screen with a frown. I know he understands what he's looking at, so, I don't have to explain the findings or what they mean. All the evidence displayed points towards medical significance and I know he can see that. But I still need some answers.

"Rises in your system's baseline pressure levels, an indication that your recharge cycles are interrupted on a regular basis, signs of your pain receptors being repeatedly dampened; not to mention verbal reports of your unrelenting exhaustion and erratic refueling habits. I believe I have a reason to be concerned," I say sternly.

"Well, I disagree. I've just been under a lot of stress lately. After all, I'm normally the only senior medical officer here; it tends to get a bit chaotic around here and this new development certainly isn't helping things. Let's get back to the bigger problem and go over those records you uncovered," he says testily. I remain silent; the only sound filling our audiles being the hum of the ship's engines. He looks back to me with an unreadable expression. I surmise I'm giving him the same unresponsiveness. He wants to change the subject, but I'm not willing to let it go.

"You're aware I could subject you to a full evaluation," I finally say, settling on a quiet, composed tone. He narrows his optics as I shudder mine.

"And I'm sure you're aware it won't do any good. Why are you being so . . . difficult? I said I'm fine."

"If you're fine, you shouldn't object to any questions then."

"For Primus sake . . . you're not going drop this are you? You people are fanatically adamant about pushing the issue. What? Can't I even deal with stress privately around here? No, it has to become a subject of public debate, doesn't it? Well, doctor Ratchet, ask away," he says flippantly while crossing his arms.

"Tell me, how are you managing said stress?" I ask, folding my own arms across my chassis and looking to him expectantly. He rolls his optics.

"I have my ways of coping."

"So I've gathered, but pretty soon you won't have access to many of them anymore," I say coolly. He drops both servos to his waist.

"I don't know what you're talking about . . ."

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," I interrupt, stepping over to access the computer fully, "According to the accounts of your former compatriots, your favorite interests include illegal street racing with humans, experimenting with potentially dangerous projects in the lab and buffing your finish. With Cybertron growing and changing as rapidly as it is, I don't foresee you having access to the space bridge or any restricted labs or even your supply of Earth-based cosmetics for much longer. How will you cope then?"

He remains silent, but his optics are alight with what I can only describe as abhorrence. I proceed to bring up his records and he proceeds to lean in closer to get a good look at them, crossing his arms again.

There's actually an impressive amount of data on him. It seems the Decepticons had quite a bit to say about their previous CMO. It was all in the linguistics of a military document, but some of Knock Out's basic characteristics had shown up time and again. He had been viewed as opportunistic, dramatic and pleasure-seeking; intermittently reliable, relatively competent and fairly crucial to the Decepticon cause. Interestingly enough, he was often chastised for things I would consider commendable such as prudence and candor. Then again, these were Decepticon reports commissioned by a tyrannical leader near the brink of madness on the best of days.

In short, it appears Knock Out's conduct was hit or miss among his former comrades. One entry points to him abandoning duties for no apparent reason while another describes him deserting the Nemesis on at least three separate occasions. There's even evidence to suggest he conspired with Starscream to terminate Megatron. It's not what one would expect from a chief medical officer, but, then again, Megatron had bizarre views on what accounted for insubordination.

Nonetheless, this gave the impression Knock Out was impulsive if not immature at times. It would certainly explain his running off yesterday. No, what's truly surprising is that his records don't just stop with his time spent within the Decepticon ranks. Apparently, he has a speckled past concerning illicit wheeling and dealing with his main objective being caste jumping. Regardless of my own personal beliefs of our former way of governing, this points to Knock Out being a very resourceful and determined mech as well; one who may still be trying to barter his way through life.

I allow him a few more clicks to peruse the data for himself, taking note of his mixed reactions to it. Astonishment, anger, scandal, confusion. A year ago, I might have found satisfaction in his discomfort, but as I watch his grieved optics, I find no fulfillment in it now.

"All of this is straight from the mainframes of the Nemesis and Darkmount?" he asks quietly.

"Yes," I say simply.

There's something on the screen he seems to be gravitating to and I wonder if it's the same thing grabbing my attention. It appears Knock Out served as second in command for a little while—something which the council is definitely going to take notice of, unfortunately.

"I don't intend to hurt you with this information. I want to help," I say after a moment. He continues to stare at the screen, clicking the digits of his right servo along his left arm. Finally, he speaks in a controlled tone.

"And how can you help me?"

"Well, there are a few options . . ." I begin, but I don't get a chance to finish as he forcefully interrupts.

"Oh, really! And do any of those options involve turning back time, because this . . ." he exclaims while throwing a hand in the direction of the screen, ". . . pretty much seals my fate on both sides of the equation. Either I'm a criminal to the Autobots or a traitor to the Decepticons! Who cares at this point how I cope with it!?"

"Knock Out, I know how this can be . . ." I try to interject before this escalates into a confrontation. I can see the murderous intent in his optics—it's a look I'm all too familiar with. He cuts me off once more.

"My health," he scoffs with piercing bitterness, "You could give a scrap about my health. This was you guys' plan the whole time, wasn't it?! Lure me into some false sense of security and then make an example out of me!"

Now, I know I need to remain calm and stay in control here. I know I need to get through to him in the most sensible way possible. I know I need to take a path leading to peace instead of an altercation. But I feel my spark thunder in fury within me at the accusation and absurdity of it all. How dare he even insinuate such a thing after everything we've done! After everything we've been through!

"Do you really think you're the only one having difficulty with this?!" I roar, narrowing my optics and noting his step backward, "I was sickened by this task; having to read through chronicles of pointless bloodshed, utter cruelty and outright lies! My energon _still_ boils remembering how we lost our home. The countless lives it took to get it back, the sacrifices we've had to make in order for it to even be possible. You can't actually believe we would just forsake all that cost, all that suffering, for something as petty as retribution against you!"

His growing look of shock and fear quickly collapses into a manifestation of confusion and rage.

"What am I supposed to think?! I'm disarmed, I'm prohibited from accessing resources and I can't even go for a drive without you people thinking I went AWOL! Now! . . . now, you're aware of more damaging information and I just can't see you or the council overlooking that! I didn't come this far just to lose. I'm telling you right now, I won't go quietly," he exclaims taking up a defensive position almost as if he were going to transform into vehicle mode. This was deteriorating quickly . . .

"Knock Out! Look around you! If we had wanted to get rid of you, wouldn't you think we'd have done it by now?!" I shout with a frustrated vent. His optics wildly dance between me and the door.

"I don't know! You didn't have this information before. Maybe you were waiting for a better opportunity!"

"You were unconscious last night! If that wasn't the most opportune time I don't know what is!"

"Well . . ." he pauses, uncertainty setting in as he glances to the floor. This may be my only chance to sway his opinion; to say what I really mean to.

"Listen. Megatron may have used execution as a means of solving his problems but that isn't how we resolve things here. Optimus never condoned revenge. He wanted peace. He died for peace. And I'm not allowing anyone to forget that, Decepticon or Autobot; not as long as I'm still around," I say solemnly. He raises his helm to look at me with saddened optics—was I actually getting through to him?

"I'll be honest, I never thought we should have granted you amnesty," I say bluntly, noticing the flicker of fear cross over him before I continue, "But Optimus did."

His reaction to those words genuinely surprises me. Unlike the snarky, arrogance I've come to know him for or the 'get out of my way','run for the hills' Decepticon I've learned so much about, he's solemn, he's humbled and he's lost for words. Staring right at me is a lifetime of shared regret and parallel remorse. I'm thunderstruck as the following realization leaves my vocalizer.

"And I can finally see why."

He looks to me in a way I can only describe as awe. He can't believe what I've just said and neither can I. The war, the destruction of our home, the loss . . . the peace, the rebuilding of our home and the gains. I've been angry and I've been patient. I've been bitter and I've been kind. I've been apathetic and caring; into the darkness and into the light. But, in all the personal struggles and private agony of raising Cybertron from the ashes, I forgot I've never been alone.

 _Till all are one, old friend._

The sound of Optimus' voice landing softly in my spark.

We stand in silence. It's neither awkward nor pleasant, but needed because we stand together. I finally accept the challenge my dear friend asked of me.

"I can't speak for anyone else, but when I say that I want to help you it is because I do," I say sincerely. Knock Out nods, but I can see he's not satisfied. More accurately, he's not assured of his standing with us. Neither am I, if I'm truthful. It will take a whole lot more than niceties to build this elusive trust we require.

If his life has been marked by the same pain as mine has, I know what I need to say.

"Knock Out, you're not just an ex-Con or a new Autobot. You're part of our family. And if that means protecting you from the council, so be it," I add firmly and decisively.

"Ratchet, I . . ." he sputters in disbelief. I don't know what he wants to express; gratitude? Apprehension? Maybe a combination of both, but, honestly, I don't care at this point. I just want reconciliation; for Optimus sake.

"Yip-ip-ip-ip. I mean every word. Now, let's focus on the remaining business of our supervision and discuss the plans of recourse afterward, shall we?"

He vents and with it I can see the tension leave him.

"Well, only because you asked so nicely," he says in his usual smug fashion, trying to lighten the mood, I'm sure. A return to normalcy. I decide to add to it for my own amusement.

"So, what did happen between you and Arcee last night?"

The look of pure surprise on his face; absolutely classic.

"Nothing," he says a bit too eagerly, before realizing it and going into some convoluted narrative about losing track of time and drop offs. As I listen, I smile. Despite the difficulty of the task before us, I can't help but smile.

After all, this is only the beginning.

" _Finally, all of you be of one mind, having compassion for one another; love as brothers, be tenderhearted, be courteous; not returning evil for evil or reviling for reviling, but on the contrary blessing, knowing that you were called to this, that you may inherit a blessing." 1 Peter 3:8-9_


End file.
